Of The Night
by Dragon's Lover1
Summary: *Rated for swearing and some violence* Lydia is an orphan who's always been the loner type, relying on herself rather than to be let down by others. But one night, in peril, that all changed. *Slight*Lydia/Brooklyn
1. Hello, Gargoyle

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are copyrighted by The WB, and possibly some other things I don't know of. The point is, I don't own "Gargoyles," in whole or in part. I am but a feeble fanfiction-writer out to amuse herself.

Of The NightOne

Describing herself wasn't something Lydia knew how to do well, nor something she was asked to do often. Many of the questions she was asked over the course of her life were asked by her, verbally or not. She was one of those rare human beings who didn't feel right in the body they were born in. Lydia in particular had an interest in the nonexistent; creatures that were said to be total myth intrigued her, and probably more so than was thought sane.

Lydia was born and raised an orphan, whose adopted parents were distant throughout her life. The closest person to her was always her elder brother, despite not being blood-related. There were times she entertained fantasies about being a real sister to a real brother, and yet she never understood how easy it could be.

She grew up knowing she was an orphan, never using the words "mother" or "father" towards her adopted parents. The distance, at times, was so great it seemed insurmountable. In school she never made friends, never seemed interested in boys, but was such a great study that she graduated at age sixteen and valedictorian.

She wasted no time in trying to separate from her parents, landing a full-time job at a post office working third-shift, from dusk until dawn. She also kept an eye on herself in a physical sense, staying in shape, fit, strong, and flexible. Her job helped in this endeavor, as it kept her moving at all times.

Almost one year after graduating, she had a job, money, and a one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a seven-floor building. The room itself was about twelve-foot square, plus a bathroom complete with a shower and a doublewide closet, but no kitchen nor refrigerator nor stove. For a while she ate out for all her meals, and then bought a portable stove and mini-fridge.

Rather than getting a car, she chose the sometimes-quicker path of getting a bike and set of roller blades. These, along with cabs, transported her wherever she wanted to go within Manhattan.

And then the big news about gargoyles struck the big city, leaving Lydia feeling like she had literally walked into a myth. All of her interest in the paranormal, impossible, improbable, and pseudo paid off all at once. The problem was that she couldn't figure a way to meet these gargoyles, as there never was any specifics about what they did all day or where they stayed.

The photos in the newspapers were always blurry, snapped in a hurry and often by a lucky pedestrian. This left her with a very limited mental image of what they looked like, let alone what color they were. The only parts discernable about the collection of pictures were that the gargoyles had wings, all of them, and that they seemed overall humanoid – built like human men and women, if with some differences.

Two of Lydia's personal habits that she was never able to shake over her lifetime were for one, the need to climb. She often stepped out of her apartment window to climb the fire escape to the roof, and from there simply enjoyed herself. The second, more costly habit was the need to draw. She hadn't taken classes for it, merely bought sketchbooks, pencils, markers, and learned by practice alone. It was something she could remember doing even as a child, and always the subject remained mythological; a great amount of sketches were thought up by her alone.

It was during the former of these habits that she first encountered the fabled "gargoyles." As she reached the roof and climbed up, she didn't see the robbers – not until it was a bit too late. Upon seeing the first of them, she recoiled only to be swung around. Four men surrounded her, one of whom held her by the arm. Although she considered herself capable of getting out of scrapes like this, it almost entirely depended on her ability to out-maneuver the attackers. If she couldn't escape their grasp, there was little chance she could continually dodge any additional grabs.

It took two seconds for this realization to hit her, which was followed instantly by a sinking feeling in her gut. Still, she resolved herself to try, twisting her arm and dropping to her knees. It worked in freeing her arm, and so she darted for the fire escape. She got one foot on the wall, and that was as far as she was going to get. Something grabbed the vest she wore and jerked her back, the force of the pull bruising her underarms. She hit the ground hard on her rear, but kept from being laid out flat.

"That was close," one of the men commented to another. "We almost lost 'er."

All four men were surrounding her again, but despite the harrowing situation this was, she couldn't summon any real fear. If anything, she felt like laughing at the irony present: she was now likely to be killed by the looks of these men, and nobody was going to miss her.

"I think you did!" came a different voice, a belated answer to the man's earlier comment. All five present looked in the direction of the voice, which was baffling in and of itself – it came from above. She had enough time to recognize was seemed to be a winged form diving downwards to the roof before all hell broke loose.

She was yanked up to her feet, used as a human shield with one arm twisted behind her back, while the winged beast shoved through three of the four attackers as though they were tissue paper. It wasn't until a few seconds later, when the excitement died down, that she fully realized she was staring at a gargoyle.

He was a dark color, though in the low light around it was hard to see well, and he was hunched a bit, hiding his height. Staring straight at her and the criminal holding her, she had to wonder what was going through this gargoyle's mind. He seemed to be helping her, but she wasn't so hopeful as to jump to conclusions.

"Back off!" the man behind her snapped. It wasn't until this moment that she became aware there was a blade pressed against her neck. "I know what you are, beast!"

The gargoyle growled, and a tinge of fear went through her to see his glowing in the darkness.

"I go free, or the girl dies," the man snarled.

_Oh, hell no,_ her mind replied. With her free left hand, she reached up and grabbed the man's wrist, trying to twist it away from her neck. Somehow, in the flurry of movement that followed, she felt herself thrown and spun, hitting the wall hard. She collapsed against it, one hand holding her neck, though at first she didn't understand why. Then she was looking up, hearing a shriek directly in front of her.

She wasn't the only thing that had moved. The gargoyle was standing at his full height now, on top of the wall's additional three feet or so. In his hand, he was dangling the man by his neck, eyes still glowing brightly. In one split second she saw him from a whole different view, realizing for the first time that he had an elongated face, more of a beak than a mouth, and long white hair.

"Don't!" the perpetrator was saying desperately. "Let me go, let me go!"

A chuckle came from the gargoyle. "Maybe you should reconsider that phrase, given where you are right now." His voice was lower than before, she noted; a bit raspier and definitely more threatening.

"I didn't – I wasn't –" the man was stuttering.

"You obviously don't know what I am," the gargoyle told him. "Gargoyles protect; it's what we're born to do. You tried to kill this girl," he gestured her with his free hand, "threatened her life. Guess what that means to me," he finished, a clear growl coming through at the end.

The criminal looked ready to faint, fear making him struggle harder against the gargoyle's grip.

"I say drop him," Lydia threw in, surprised at how raspy her own voice was. Clearing her throat did nothing to help, she noted as she went on, "I think he deserves it."

"No!! Oh, god –" the man blurted, kicking his feet.

The gargoyle, on the other hand, glanced down at her, the glow of his eyes disappearing. "Do you think he'd die at the impact? This is – what, eight stories high?"

"Seven," she corrected, holding her neck a little tighter in a vain attempt at smoothing her voice. "And no, I don't think it'd kill him. It's more like an eye for an eye, in different context."

"So you think a bunch of broken bones equals a threat?"

How strange, she thought, that she was arguing semantics with a gargoyle. She pulled her hand away from her neck, palm outward. "He didn't just threaten me," she replied.

He looked surprised for a second, and then the glowing eyes returned. With another growl, he swung that terrifying gaze on the man still dangling seven stories above a cement alley. "You cut her!" he snarled. Everything about this gargoyle was starting to frighten her, but no more so than the man in his hand.

The man whimpered now, struggled a second more, then seemed to go limp. With a twist of the gargoyle's arm, he was thrown onto the roof, where he tumbled like a rag doll for a second before lying totally still. Four unconscious men lay practically in a pile, all at the hands of a single gargoyle. Lydia found herself with a newfound respect for the dark, shadowy figure that had saved her.

With a bit of effort, she got to her feet, surprised to find herself helped by the gargoyle, steadying her with a hand on her arm. And for tossing around four men so easily, his grip was far from painful. Now standing much closer, she could see many more details about him that she couldn't before: a stout nose, horns atop his head, and deeply-shadowed eyes stood out to her.

"Do you live around here?" he asked her.

Once again, she found herself surprised – this time at his question. She gave a nod, then glanced over the wall at the fire escape. Pointing, she said, "Three windows down." Now she was officially frustrated at the sound of her own voice.

"Okay, let's go."

She stared at him. "Go?" she repeated.

"Yeah, we have to take a better look at your neck."

_The wound._ She'd almost forgotten for a moment there that this might be a life-threatening cut, given the pain hadn't quite set in yet. Now that she was thinking about it, she could already start to feel a throb that warned of the pain to come. "Right, that," she rasped. She swung her legs over the wall, and that was about all she did by herself.

He hopped over the wall much quicker than her, and with a grip on her waist, helped her down onto the metal railing. He even led her down the steps to her window, on alert in case she fell, she supposed. And after helping her through her window, he actually waited for her permission to enter her apartment.

Whatever his ideas of propriety, they certainly exceeded her own. She had a touch-lamp by her bed, and three taps turned it on fully. Then she went to her bathroom, flipped on the light, and opened the mirror-cabinet to begin taking out first aid items. She had three sizes of medical tape in there, along with Neosporin, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, and more band-aids than she thought she'd ever need.

When she closed the mirror, she jumped pretty hard at seeing the reflection of both of them. "Geez," she sighed.

"Sorry," was his apology. "I forget sometimes how scary I look to humans."

"It's not that," she clarified, tilting her head to see her cut. "I'm not used to seeing other people in my mirror."

"You mean you don't have guests?" he asked, leaning far to one side – she guessed to see the wound as well.

"Nu-uh," she answered, wishing she had cotton swabs. She added that item to a mental list of things she needed the next time she went shopping.

She wasn't positive exactly what followed, given she started to suffer from blood loss, but she had a lasting feeling of being spoken to and of talking back. Perhaps this gargoyle was far more clever than the tabloids made them out to be, keeping her partially focused the entire time. She also had the distinct feeling of falling for a brief moment, and then of being propped up. Her sight came to and went of its own accord, leaving her with glimpses that reminded her of freeze-frame and skip functions on DVDs.

Once her eyesight cleared again, she found herself more or less sprawled across her bed. Getting a grip on the reality around her, she sat up and met with another unusual sight: that gargoyle was still here. He was sitting on the foot of the bed, back to her, glancing this way and that, his wings draped around his shoulders.

"Did I miss something?" she asked.

He turned halfway towards her, and she could almost believe he was smiling. "You were out for a little while," he answered. "I thought of calling an ambulance here for you, but there's a few problems with that."

". . .Like?" she prodded.

"I don't know the address here, or the apartment number. And I don't see a phone anywhere."

"I have a cell," she told him. "Ah. . .and I left it at work," she went on as she realized it. She blew out a sigh at her own forgetfulness, then decided to change the subject, even as she felt the bandages around her neck. "How long exactly was I out?"

"Maybe half an hour," he told her with a slight shrug. "You gonna be okay?"

"I've suffered worse," she answered with her own shrug. "What were you doing this whole time?"

"You mean besides worrying?"

The world around her shook at that question.

"Admiring the _neatness_ you keep your room in, for one," he pointed out.

She glanced at the floor. Her bike had slid flat onto the floor, her backpack had been tossed without concern, she had clothes dropped just about everywhere, and old magazines, newspapers and sketchbooks were piled in several places. A twelve-by-twelve room looked filled to the brim despite it having a small amount of items around. Other than her bed, nightstand, desk and fridge, nothing really took up any large amount of space nor needed to remain in place.

She scoffed at the sight. "I figure it this way: only parents or those looking to be parents have a need to keep tidy," she told him.

"Words to live by," he laughed.

A pause stretched out between them until, in unison, they said, "What's your name?"

Lydia's brows shot up. Never before had she managed that kind of stunt. Before she could answer, he did, saying, "Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" she echoed. "Like the city?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I was kinda named after it. So, you are?"

"Lydia," she introduced with a nod. "Hey, a second ago you said 'admiring the neatness _for one_.' What was the other?"

He lifted his hand in an answer, and she recognized a sketchbook of hers. It was an earlier one, which she could tell immediately by the page it was open on: a female centaur stood erect on hind legs, spear weapon in hand, with flames around each hoof. It was one she did more than two years prior.

"Ah," was all she could say. Oddly, she didn't feel like her privacy was invaded at all; it was a carelessness she had known for most of her life.

"These are pretty good," he said. "How long have you been at it?"

"I date the pictures individually," she told him. "Top right corner."

"I noticed that. I'm asking if you've been drawing longer than two years."

"Since I was little," she answered, shrugging. "I don't have a real time frame."

He nodded, and after a lengthy pause, closed the sketchbook and put it down. Then he got to his feet, saying, "If you're gonna be okay, then I need to get going."

She almost panicked, shocked at herself for having such a reaction. Even so, she felt she couldn't let him walk out of her life just as easily as he showed up. He was the only person she'd had a real conversation with in years. She stopped him by getting up and asking, "Wait, uh. . . You know where I live; where do you live?"

He actually looked a bit surprised at the question. "Why do you want to know?"

He sounded more than a little defensive, which she supposed she could understand. "What if I want to talk to you again? I'd rather not get attacked every time I want to say hey," she reasoned.

After a few seconds' hesitation, she thought she saw amusement on his face. "C'mere," he said, curling his fingers in a gesture matching the phrase.

". . .To where?"

"The window," he answered, pointing at it. Once she had joined him, he pointed over the nearby buildings at a particularly tall skyscraper. "I live up there, above the clouds."

"Isn't it hard to breathe that high up?" was her immediate retort.

He chuckled. "Not for gargoyles."

She glanced at him. "I have to ask. . . Are you a good example of gargoyles in general?"

"You mean how I'm built?" At her nod, he went on. "Not as much. We're all very different."

"Define 'very,'" she pressed.

"Well, I have two best friends," he told her. "Broadway is blue and much bigger than me; Lex is green and much smaller."

She lifted her brows, having trouble envisioning what he meant. "So three vastly different gargoyles," she put together.

"Yeah," he laughed. "But there's more than just three of us."

"I'm not surprised," she replied. "There's girl gargoyles too?"

"I'll say," he said quietly.

"What does that mean?"

"Very pretty girls," he told her with a smirk.

"Oh. Sounds nice," was all she could think to say.

He opened the window, a clear sign that he was going to leave. But before going, he said, "Make sure you get that cut looked at better."

"Gargoyles aren't doctors?" she teased, smiling.

"Nope. See ya, Lydia."

He climbed out and quite literally climbed up the fire escape, which she noticed was much quicker and probably easier than rounding the stairs for three stories. Once she heard wind rushing by the window, she shut it.

Her mind kept replaying the events of the night, short though it was. Most pointedly, she found herself trying to understand Brooklyn in a physical kind o way, fascinated with the way he looked. She was trying to recall every detail as best she could, and came to several realizations as she did so. His wings were at the forefront of her mind despite her attempts to banish it back; wings always held the strongest interest to her.

And then her mind brought back the incredibly gentle way he'd helped her down the fire escape, bringing up his hands. He had four fingers? Or was it five and she hadn't looked hard enough? Not to mention the few times she'd touched him, she hadn't felt hair the way humans had it. Other than that long, white mane of his, she seriously doubted he had any hair. He certainly didn't have eyebrows, though that didn't have any hindrances for his facial expressions.

What a peculiar person he was, gargoyle or not. She definitely had to see him again, if only to get concrete images of what he looked like. It was then that she decided she had to put onto paper what she could remember, so she set to work doing so. The downside was how hard it was to find suitable pencils and open sketchbooks.

Though her mind supplied her with plenty of detailed images, she couldn't seem to put it to paper right. Several sketches later and she just about gave up, frustrated with the failures. A twinge in her neck helped her put the paper down, reminding her that she still had to get a checkup for this cut. That in mind, she resolved to leave the sketchbooks alone and put her health first. She took a cab to the nearest little clinic, glad that was barely eight-thirty.

All throughout the checkup, prescription, cab ride back and the rest of the night, she couldn't get Brooklyn out of her head.


	2. Castle Wyvern

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are copyrighted by The WB, and possibly some other things I don't know of. The point is, I don't own "Gargoyles," in whole or in part. I am but a feeble fanfiction-writer out to amuse herself.

_**Of The Night**_

_Two_

"Where were you?" Lex asked as Brooklyn arrived. "You're more than a little late."

"Yeah, and now we're out of snacks," Broadway told him.

Brooklyn laughed. "You down all the snacks in five minutes anyway. I was helping a girl," he explained.

"Is that it?" Lex said, laughing. "The movie hasn't started yet; keep going."

"I saw some guys toss this lady around on a rooftop," he continued. "So I dropped down to help her."

"You should say it in a more 'cool' way," Broadway threw in. "Like this." He posed. " 'There I was, just gliding above the building. And _bam!_ This poor girl was,' what was that word?" He paused to think. "Oh, I remember – 'This poor girl was accosted by some thugs. Of course I wasn't going to stand for that –'"

"Long story short," Brooklyn cut in, "there's four guys knocked out on a roof and she's off to see a doctor."

"Doctor? What happened?" Lex asked, concerned.

"One of the guys cut her on the neck," Brooklyn said. "She'll probably be okay."

Broadway seemed to think about that. "You didn't take her to a hospital?"

"It wasn't bleeding much," Brooklyn explained. "It was bound well; I just suggested she get checked out in case."

"You were there for how long?"

"Until she woke up."

"She passed out?" Lex all but snapped. "Why?"

"Uh. . .blood loss," Brooklyn said reluctantly.

Blank stares were his reply from Lex and Broadway.

"Oh come on, she was okay enough to keep talking. We even joked. Now when's that movie starting?" he said abruptly, hoping the change of subject would help ease the intensity of those stares.

It worked, but only for the course of the movie. Once 'Hellboy' was through killing a God, the three of them exited the theatre and were immediately back to the subject of Lydia. Gliding back to the castle, Lex was the first to bring it up.

"So. . .you never mentioned this girl's name," he pointed out.

"Why are you so interested?" Brooklyn snapped. "We all save dozens of people a week; what makes her so different?"

Broadway answered that. "Well, we usually help 'em and that's that. You hung out."

_Good point,_ Brooklyn thought. "Okay, fine. Her name's Lydia. What else you gotta know?"

"Is she cute?" Lex asked.

"Lex!" Brooklyn snarled. "That's a terrible joke."

"Who's joking? I wanna know," Lex reasoned.

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?" Broadway interjected.

"Because. . .just because," Brooklyn snapped at him.

"Okay, fine, I was just teasing anyway," Lex told him. "Does she think _you're_ cute?"

Brooklyn's reply was a heavy sigh.

Lex laughed. "But seriously, is she going to be okay?"

"The cut wasn't too bad," Brooklyn said.

"Bad enough that she passed out from blood loss," Lex pointed out.

"She'll be fine. It wasn't a deep cut; I doubt it'd need stitches."

"Well, as long as she's not in danger," Broadway reasoned, "I guess everything's okay. I say Brooklyn did a good job protecting her."

"Are you gonna see her again?" Lex said abruptly.

Brooklyn might've shrugged if he weren't gliding at that moment. "Maybe. I know where she lives, and I told her where the castle is."

"So maybe, but not for sure," Lex summarized. "I guess that makes it a fifty-fifty chance."

Brooklyn glanced at him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it's _you_ who wants to see her."

"She sounds cute," Lex replied easily.

Brooklyn just sighed again. "Fine, just keep giving me a hard time. Maybe the next girl I see get attacked I'll glide right past."

"I doubt that," Lex told him.

"Hey, is anybody else hungry?" Broadway asked, only having been listening about half the time.

Brooklyn chuckled. "Leave it to Broadway," he said to himself. "Well, considering you ate all the snacks before I showed up, yeah. Let's raid the castle's kitchen again when we get there."

"Owen's gonna be mad at us," Lex pointed out.

"Maybe, but 'Puck' is gonna be laughing inside," Brooklyn retorted.

"Just why did Puck decide to be such a grouch?" Broadway asked. "Of all the kinds of people to masquerade as."

"He must like the hairstyle," Lex suggested.

All three reached the castle in good spirits, heading straight for the kitchen. After successfully destroying a few pots and many boxes of food, they were booted from the kitchen by Owen himself, looking more stressed than usual. About an hour before dawn, the clan regrouped and shared the day's interesting points, which included Lydia. Goliath and Angela had been watching over Elisa, telling a story of an explosion that almost got Elisa in an attempt to kill her, though instead they helped capture several arsonists.

Waking up from the stone sleep the following dusk, Owen was waiting for them to descend. The first thing he said was, "We have a guest."

"Wow, now that was pretty cool."

Standing a little behind Owen and only slightly noticed by them on the way down was a girl, black hair fluffed forward and violet eyes. Brooklyn recognized her instantly as Lydia, and he imagined Lex and Broadway recognized her by the white bandage easily noticed around her neck.

She looked like a kid in a candy store, eyes darting between them in fascination. Yesterday, as he recalled, she'd been wearing blue jeans, a black shirt and a blue vest. Today's style was vastly different, a purple halter top and matching knee-length skirt.

"Lydia?" Brooklyn said, wondering what to say.

"Imagine my surprise when I showed up an hour ago," she told him, "only to be told you were still 'asleep.'"

Goliath growled low, a sound of discomfort with her presence. "Normally Xanatos doesn't allow strangers up here."

"Mr. Xanatos has decided Miss Lydia is no threat," Owen answered.

"Hear that? _Miss Lydia._ I feel big," Lydia said, smirking at Owen.

Brooklyn couldn't help a chuckle. "Okay, well. . . This is Lexington, Broadway, Angela, Hudson, Goliath, and the mutt is Bronx," he introduced one by one. "Everybody, this is Lydia."

Lydia nodded respectfully. When Bronx came closer to sniff her, however, she jumped and edged back. "Uh. . . down, Bronx," she tried.

Bronx whined at her, then turned towards Hudson.

Hudson rubbed his neck. "Nice to meet ye, Lydia. Bronx and I will be off." The two headed indoors.

"I must see to Elisa," Goliath told them. "I likely won't be back for some time."

Angela was the first to approach Lydia. "I heard Brooklyn helped you yesterday."

Lydia nodded. "Yep. I guess I was lucky to get away with just a cut."

"The wound isn't bad?"

"Nu-uh, I got it checked out and everything. Didn't even need stitches. The doctor even mentioned it won't leave a scar, so I'm good."

"If everything is settled here, I will be on my way," Owen said, bowing out.

Standing a bit higher, Lex leaned in towards Brooklyn and whispered, "I think she _is_ cute."

"Cut that out already," Brooklyn snapped, pushing Lex away. He noticed that Angela and Lydia were chatting with each other now, leaving him a big door to straighten out Lex and Broadway before they did anything stupid. "Look, guys – Broadway!"

The larger gargoyle was already heading inside for breakfast. Lex laughed, obviously amused with the situation. "Don't worry, Brooklyn; you can hang out with your new buddy in peace. See ya," he waved as he followed Broadway.

Brooklyn sighed heavily. "Fine." But looking at the girls told him that he wasn't going to be able to insert himself into their little circle, which left him slightly jealous. Odd though it was, he found himself thinking that for a little while, Lydia had been a secret of his, which he'd been thinking of keeping for a while – until she showed up.

Finding no way of grabbing attention for himself without being rude or getting in trouble with the girls, he gave up and followed his friends inside. Spotting Lex and Broadway at the table with a plethora of different foods before them like every other night, he moved right in to help himself.

"What, you're not with your new girlfriend?" Lex teased.

"Girlfriend?" Broadway echoed, pausing halfway to a bite.

Brooklyn rolled his eyes. "That joke died already. Stop it already."

"Ah, okay. Hey, Brooklyn, if she's not your girlfriend, can I have her?" Lex asked.

Brooklyn growled at him. "You don't know when to stop, do you?"

"Oh I'm just having fun," Lex told him, chuckling. "Cool off."

"I don't get it," Broadway threw in. "Is Lydia your girlfriend or Lex's?" he asked Brooklyn.

"Nobody's," Brooklyn snapped. "Lex is making bad jokes."

"Now wait a second," Lex threw back, "that's hardly nice. What's got you so irritated?"

"Nothing!"

Lex glared. "Right. And my real name is Daisy. C'mon, Brooklyn, something's got you pissed."

"Y'know," Broadway added, "you did seem pretty on edge yesterday, too."

"I'm fine," Brooklyn told them both. "I'm not mad."

Lex gave him a pointedly doubtful look.

"I'm not!"

"Well, I'm convinced," Broadway said, though his flat tone betrayed his words.

"Fine, you want to know what the problem is?" Brooklyn snapped. At the expectant looks of his two best friends, he went on, "I was worrying about her all night yesterday and during my sleep. And you two are making jokes!"

At the silence he was greeted with, he became aware of an additional presence in the room. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted both girls, both of whom wore surprised expressions. They were staring straight at him.

". . .Welcome to the dining room," he tried, hoping to lessen the embarrassment he felt.

"Thanks," Lydia replied mechanically. She touched the bandage on her neck absently. "You were worried about this?"

More than feeling embarrassed, now he was confused. "Are you surprised that a gargoyle would be?" he asked, trying to figure why she looked so shocked.

"I'm surprised _anybody_ would be," she clarified.

Angela turned her gaze from Brooklyn to Lydia. "Why is that surprising?"

"Nobody's ever worried about me," Lydia replied, pointedly towards Angela.

"Don't you have a family?" Brooklyn asked her.

"Not really; I'm an orphan," she told them.

Lex piped up. "Don't you have friends?"

Silence stretched out then, Lydia remaining mute. After a little while she glanced away, turning her attention to a suit of armor against the wall. She approached it, touched it, stared at it; seemingly engrossed in the armor alone.

All four gargoyles exchanged looks of concern, ending with three of them looking expectantly at Brooklyn. That's when it hit him that Lydia was still 'his' in a way. She might not be a secret all for him to keep, but she was definitely a responsibility to watch over. In that sense, it was even better; now he had reason to hang around her, though it puzzled him a bit as to why he wanted to.

"Hey Lydia," he called, catching her attention. "Are you hungry at all?" With a gesture at the table, he invited her to join them.

She shook her head. "Afraid not. But thanks," she added almost as an afterthought.

Now he didn't know how to get her talking again. Neither did he have to, though; Xanatos chose then to enter the room, announcing himself as he did so.

"Good evening, gargoyles," he greeted. "And Lydia, was it?"

Lydia looked up at her name. "Yeah. I'm glad you remembered. An hour is a long waiting time."

"That sounded sarcastic," Xanatos pointed out. "My reason for coming here is that you didn't give your last name."

"And?" she prodded.

He raised a brow. "And, I was fully planning on doing a background check on you, but I need your last name to do it."

She gave a laugh. "I doubt you'd like what you'll find."

"Why, what's in there?" Brooklyn asked her.

"Police reports, for one," she replied easily.

"You've been arrested?" Lexington said, surprised.

"Yes and no," she answered. "Police generally don't keep juveniles on school nights."

"Juvenile now," Xanatos repeated. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"In which case it _is_ a school night," he told her. "You should be studying."

"I graduated," she countered. "Last year. Nowadays I'm emancipated."

"Living alone?"

"You seem awfully concerned," she snapped.

He just shrugged. "I'm a little wary about who comes to the castle."

She crossed her arms, glaring at Xanatos. "Is there a reason to be?"

"Well," he started, leaning against a wall, "I think it's time we inform Miss Lydia just how dangerous it really is. Who wants to be the bearer of bad news?"

* * *

". . .You've been quiet for a while," Brooklyn said, keeping an eye on Lydia.

She was outside now, sitting on one of the walls overlooking the city. Being fully used to perching much like the way she was sitting now, he wasn't fearful of falling, but he wondered why _she_ wasn't feeling vertigo. Humans usually became very scared this high up.

She was also fiddling with her hands in ways he could almost imagine being as drawing, tracing invisible lines with her fingers. She sighed now, looking over at him. "Put bluntly, I've always known there were darker sides of life. I guess it just didn't hit me how right I was till – that talk."

He nodded, understanding. "Yeah, most people have trouble believing anything that has to do with gargoyles. Magic and enemies included."

"Not to mention technology," she pointed out. "Here I was thinkin' we – humans – have a long way to go before achieving some of the stuff Xanatos mentioned."

"Well, you probably don't have anything to worry about. These days the attacks are few and far between. You should've seen it a few years back," he laughed. "It's like we were fighting every other day."

"You fought yesterday," she shot back.

"That's not what I mean," he shook his head. "Imagine fighting stun grenades, laser guns, tasers, rocket launchers, robots, jet packs, mini missiles _and_ magic all in the same battle."

She raised her brows. "For my own sake, I'm going to believe that's never happened."

He laughed. "You don't know the half of it. We've even been cloned. Goliath was brainwashed once, too. Just about any kind of unbelievable thing you can think of, we've done."

She paused. "How about a spell to make you quadruple in size?"

His response was a smile. "Okay, you got me there. That's never happened."

"Ever shoot spaghetti out of your fingertips?"

"What?" he laughed hard, wondering where that idea came from.

She grinned. "It was part of a joke I heard once. He said something like, 'What kind of super power would you like if you could pick? I'd like to shoot spaghetti out of my fingertips. Like if someone was bothering me and I wanted them to go, I'd be like, "I don't think so," and shower them in spaghetti.'"

He was still laughing. "I've never heard anything like that before."

"Then maybe you should rethink the phrase 'Any unbelievable thing you can think of' in the future," she teased, sticking her tongue out.

He lifted his hands in surrender. "I give. You win."

She was smiling. "I thought so."

In a bright flash, Puck chose to join them, simply appearing before them. Brooklyn glared at him.

"There you are, hard to find for a human," he said to Lydia, touching ground on a slow fall. "Righto, I finally have a chance to chitchat with you. So, chitchat, girl." He plopped down, looking expectantly at her.

Lydia stared right back. "Uh. . ."

"This is Puck," Brooklyn told her. "We mentioned him a couple times, remember?"

"Oh, _Puck,_" she said, realization dawning on her. "Why am I of any interest to you?" she asked him.

"Well, it's not every day we get a new member to the club," Puck reasoned. He stuck out his hand to her.

She raised a brow. "Sorry, Puck, but I don't shake hands. Hey!" she snapped when he snatched her hand for a shake anyway. She wrenched her hand free with a sound that was nearly a snarl. Then she smirked, saying, "Puck as in from _A Midsummer Night's Dream?_"

"That never happened," Puck shrugged. "Oh, but it was a good story. Plus Shakespeare got the names right."

"Plural," she pointed out. "Who else he mentioned actually exists?"

"Oberon and Titania, mother and father of the third race," he said proudly, "namely, me."

"You don't look all that impressive to me," she said cruelly. "More like a dandy."

Brooklyn snickered. Puck, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. "It's lucky for you," he pointed at her, "that I've got restraints against using magic. I could shrink you to the size of a pea; how would you like that?"

"It'd certainly be something new," she smirked. "But you've yet to worry me, Puck."

He frowned, then smirked back. "We'll see," he said, disappearing a second later – his grin remaining briefly like the Cheshire Cat's.

"Can I expect to meet him again sometime?" she asked Brooklyn.

He nodded. "You can definitely bet on it."


	3. Caged

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Three_

Saying the night had been interesting for Lydia was putting it incredibly mildly. She knew from how Brooklyn had spoken before that there were more gargoyles, though she had no idea what the number was until she met them. Then seeing them for herself, talking to them, and starting to understand them – it was a huge learning experience for her. The only one of the gargoyles who seemed less intelligent than her was Broadway, but she knew from a look that it'd be stupid to point it out.

Being regaled by tales of their exploits had been the highlight of her evening for most of the night, being more than entertaining and impressive. Although she'd spent most of the time with Brooklyn, away from the others, she grew to know them all fairly well by the end of the night. She even got to meet Goliath again shortly before dawn, as he glided back to the castle.

And he'd shown up with Elisa, which was a huge downer on Lydia's night. She recognized the other woman instantly, having evaded her more than once in the past two years. To top it off, Elisa not only recognized her as well, but also mentioned that Lydia had an outstanding warrant for her arrest. That meant she'd have to pointedly avoid Elisa in the future.

The only reason why she was positive she wasn't arrested then and there was that Brooklyn had already offered to take her back to her apartment moments before. Though it took a while for him to convince her it was perfectly safe, she was already on his back when Elisa said all these things. Rather than let the arrest take place, she'd urged Brooklyn to go or take off; whichever he chose to call it.

During the glide, he'd tried to ask her about the warrant Elisa mentioned, but Lydia was far too engrossed in the moment to reply in anything less than gibberish. Eventually he gave up to finish the flight.

The entire trip only took a few minutes, if that, yet it still felt absolutely incredible to her. She had never before been in any type of situation where she could feel the wind that clearly and from so far up. In fact, at the beginning it'd been extremely hard to keep from screaming, much like her first time on a roller coaster had felt.

Brooklyn also decided about halfway through to pull some tricks, probably just to give her a thrill. It certainly worked, too. Lydia was close to screaming for the second time, but it was like a pleasurable kind of fear she'd felt. At last, at the end, when they reached her apartment roof, she was pumped with excitement, and surprised to find that her knees gave out the same moment she touched ground.

Brooklyn laughed as he pulled her back up, but she was laughing, too. She could never have fully described what she went through, short though it was. Nonetheless, she found herself trying to, regardless of whether or not he was catching anything she said. The full rambles included the words: wind, night, rush, flying and angel repeatedly. At the end, even _she_ didn't know exactly what she'd said, but he definitely looked amused.

Then he departed, after telling her she could come by Wyvern castle anytime she wanted; nobody would turn her away as long as she never threatened anyone who lived there. She took that part seriously, though she doubted she'd be returning there anytime soon, knowing that Elisa wanted her arrested. On the other hand, she might be judging the woman too harshly – police officers upheld the law, which meant, of course, that those who had warrants for arrest were to be taken in.

She thought this over as she climbed into her window and got ready for bed. Having spent almost her entire night at the castle included a meal later on in the evening, which meant she wasn't hungry now. And once she was ready for bed, and having successfully concluded that Elisa wasn't unreasonable nor a person to be feared, she was more than tired enough to sleep.

* * *

One of Lydia's special skills that she found particularly valuable was her awareness. For as long as she could remember, she always knew when someone else was around. Anyone who tried to sneak into her room while she slept failed; she knew when the door opened. Which is why, when someone from outside her apartment tried to stealthily slide open her window, it woke her up.

She always kept two weapons under her bed, in easy reach of her hand. One was a bat, the other a knife with a five-inch blade, which she practiced throwing. Instinctively, as she realized someone was trying to sneak into her apartment, her hand sought and found the handle of the bat.

She kept her breathing even, waiting and listening, until she was sure whoever it was had come close. Then, with all the speed she could muster, she swung the bat and spun to see the assailant in one. The sight of who it was both surprised her and made the eventual bruises worthwhile.

It was one of the men who had attacked her on the roof two nights ago. Though he recoiled, trying to protect himself, it didn't stop the bat from colliding with him. He fell back with a yelp and a very clear crack, instilling a hope in her that she'd broken his arm. It was too bad for her that there seemed to be a plan in motion this night.

Injured but mobile, he reached her door and unlocked it. Apparently somebody outside was waiting earnestly for that moment, for the door was kicked in – further harming man number one. The other three assailants were there, crowded in her doorway, and the leader now with a firearm of some sort. So she did the first thing she could think of: she threw the bat at them.

The gun went off, but it was pointed at the ceiling, missing her entirely. She didn't stick around to wait and see if a second man had a gun as well; she bolted for the window, knowing it was open. She knew very well that she had a lead, and that the lead was enough to evade all four men, but she still felt like laughing at herself.

She was wearing pajamas; a small top and shorts pair made of silk, and had no slip on shoes that were on the way. Worst of all, it was early October, definitely getting colder with each day. She was in no state to go romping about outside.

Nonetheless, it was either that, or suffer god-knew-what at the hands of four men obviously intent on killing her. She managed to get out of the window fully before hearing a second shot ricochet off the metal railings. And here she thought hitting the railing only happened in movies, as special effects.

It was entirely too easy to her, climbing up the fire escape. She'd spent several years developing a springboard way of continuing motion, something like how a cheetah ran smoothly. She didn't even need to take the stairs up; it was one fluid motion to climb up three stories and onto the roof. And being barefoot only made it easier to maintain a grip.

It wasn't until she hopped the wall onto the roof that she realized it was at least three hours until dusk, judging from the angle of the sun. She'd been entertaining a fleeting hope that it was nighttime and that Brooklyn would manage a second miraculous rescue, but after seeing that sunlight, it was dashed fairly hard.

But that didn't mean the castle was off-limits. She realized then that she could count just about any building as a safe haven, even as she only had Castle Wyvern in mind at the moment.

Hearing clanging as men got onto the fire escape kicked her back into motion, ignoring their vulgar shouts of what they were going to do with her once they caught her. She took a run towards a very specific route she'd developed a few months back, and had practiced many times before. Though granted, in the practices she was always wearing shoes and much better protective clothing.

The first jump went flawlessly all the same, making her smile. She probably even made it before the first man reached the roof, but she wasn't going to take that chance. She kept up her run, glad she'd tried so hard to teach herself how to turn a landing into a continuous run.

Now seeming far away, she could hear the men cursing. A second later, however, and it sounded like someone spotted her, which was proven as soon as she heard a third gunshot. It struck somewhere behind her, and given the track record, she had to assume these men were not trained marksmen. She took a second leap just as she heard a body landing hard behind her.

She grabbed hold of a horizontal pole, which swung predictably to help cover the distance to the third rooftop. From there, she could already see the other side: a fire escape and a dumpster, always kept shut. It was a five-part to pull off the next stunt, from off the roof, to the fire escape, to the opposite wall, to the dumpster and finally to the sidewalk. And with the pole swung to her side, she imagined those men would be much more strained to find a way down.

A forth shot was fired, then a fifth and sixth, the shots getting better from the sound of where they struck. She hoped all they had was a single six-shooter pistol.

Off the roof she went, then down to the ground as planned. She was breathing too hard, she noted; she wouldn't be able to keep this up for too much longer. She flagged a cab. As she climbed in, she saw the driver eye her in a slightly uncomfortable way, deciding then to get right back out.

"Thanks for that," she said snidely to him, slamming the door. Rather than break into another run, she took a stroll, staring down anybody who stared back at her.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

Following the sound of that voice led Lydia to spot Elisa. "Pajamas," she answered. "Oh, hey, are you bulletproof?"

Elisa narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Some guys broke into my apartment, so I took off. So far I've discovered there's four and at least one has a gun," she explained, still a bit out of breath.

Elisa gestured her closer, taking off her red jacket. "Alright, come over here. Wear this," she offered, holding out the jacket.

Lydia took it more than a bit gratefully, taking in its lingering warmth. She sighed. "Thanks, Elisa. I wasn't expecting you to help me out without mentioning that warrant."

"Safety first," Elisa reasoned. She led Lydia to her car. Once they were both in, she started talking. "Okay, start at the beginning. Who's chasing you?"

* * *

Around an hour later found Lydia in a holding cell of the precinct, now wearing some clothes kept in the building storage and a pair of oversized boots that made it funny to walk. She had been fully indicted, had her prints and pictures taken, and been told exactly what she'd pay for three counts of trespassing and seven counts of evading police.

Directly to her left, in the cell next door, as it were, stood three grown men. That was three-quarters of the group who attacked her in her apartment, the last man apparently having gotten away somehow. She found it amusing how those men wanted to kill her so badly, but couldn't reach her.

". . ."

A little out of earshot was Elisa, whom Lydia had been keeping an eye on. She was puzzled about the elder woman, to say the least; "for her own protection" she'd been indicted and thrown in a cell. She considered this a step back from being safe, especially with the last of the quartet still loose somewhere.

". . .composite sketch," she heard someone say.

She wanted to groan. She shouldn't be here, her mind kept saying. She wouldn't say she was claustrophobic, yet at the same time, she hated to be pinned down. A holding cell was a terrible place for her to be; it frustrated her to an insane amount.

"Blow me already!" she snapped, having reached her limit. She jumped up, with everyone in earshot looking at her. "How long am I gonna be in here, huh?! Till the rest of you cripples die of old age?!" She turned to the three now-laughing men in the cell adjoining hers. "And _you_ guys can suck my --"

"Lydia!" Elisa interrupted, overriding the end of Lydia's rant. She came over, giving a disapproving look. "Was that completely necessary?"

"Yes, mom," Lydia replied sarcastically.

Elisa sighed, looking far from amused. "You're not in any danger, Lydia."

"I'm guessing you didn't notice man number four missing from my neighboring cell."

"We confiscated his gun, so he's unarmed," Elisa countered.

"Oh, well, let's jump for joy, then," Lydia returned smartly. "Because as everyone knows, criminals are unable of having more than one gun at a time."

Elisa's next sound was more like a huff. "Are you quite finished?"

"I haven't even gotten started, hun," Lydia cooed, grasping the bars. "But since you're such a nice lady I figure I shouldn't insult you entirely too much."

"Wanna 'insult' me, baby?" one of the men jeered. "I'm up for it!"

"Lemme have some kind of a blunt object," Lydia said pointedly to Elisa, lowering her voice. "I betcha I could get them to tell me where their boss went."

"How do you the escaped one is the boss?" Elisa asked.

"Isn't that how it always goes? Besides, if the boss is caught, he's not the boss anymore, is he?" She smirked. "I promise not to kill 'em."

"Lydia, I'm not giving you a blunt object," Elisa told her. "Now, if you don't mind, I have other things to do."

"Impasse!" Lydia snapped, snatching Elisa's sleeve as she turned to leave. When the older woman returned a glare, she went on. "So when am I gonna be let out, d'ya think?"

Elisa's gaze softened. "We don't want to keep a minor overnight, even an emancipated one. But it hinges on someone paying bail."

Lydia sighed harshly, letting go of the other woman's sleeve. "I'm gonna be here for a while, then."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I have nobody," Lydia answered easily, shrugging.

Elisa looked surprised. "Not even a family?"

"I was adopted," Lydia agreed, "but I was also removed the same day I emancipated myself."

"So. . .you have _no one?_"

Lydia smiled, though it was strained. "Except for our mutual friends, yeah."

Elisa's eyes widened a little as she got the gist. "Well, in that case, you're going to be here for a while," she said, reluctantly.

"Or you could, y'know. . .leave behind a key or something," Lydia offered. "I'm pretty sure I'm clever enough to find a way to get out on my own."

Elisa was smiling fondly as she walked off, shaking her head.

Lydia pouted. Lucky for her that she knew her own size – these bars were just far enough that she would likely be able to squeeze between them. The downside was how tight of a squeeze it would be.

Next door, the men laughed and jeered more, gesturing her. Her face fell. Another factor was those three bastards. It was highly unlikely that they would stay quiet, if she found a good moment to slip out. No, they wouldn't stay silent; they would hoot and holler so loud that there was no way she'd be able to escape unnoticed.

She _hated_ cages.


	4. An Ally?

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Four_

When night descended and the gargoyles awoke, stretching and roaring to the night sky, Elisa was waiting for them – but, Brooklyn noticed right away, Lydia wasn't. He frowned slightly as he glided down with the rest, partially out of disappointment that Lydia wasn't there, and partially at the way Elisa shuffled. She looked nervous, or perhaps unwilling to be here.

"What is wrong, Elisa?" Goliath asked, instantly picking up on Elisa's obvious distress.

Elisa gave a sigh. "Well, to be blunt. . .I ran into Lydia earlier."

"And?" Brooklyn prodded as they gathered nearer to her.

"And she'd been attacked in her apartment," Elisa went on. As surprised looks went around, she explained, "Lydia recognized them as the four men _you_ saved her from two nights ago." She nodded at Brooklyn.

"Is she okay?" Angela asked, concern written across her features.

"Unharmed," Elisa told them, and relief went around. "But she did have outstanding warrants --"

"You arrested her?" Brooklyn blurted.

"Yes," she said reluctantly. "We also managed to arrest three of the four men and confiscate their weapon."

"What weapon?"

"A gun."

Broadway growled softly, fists clenching reflexively. His distaste for firearms was still as evident as ever.

Brooklyn thought it over. "You didn't put her in the same cell as those men, did you?"

"No," Elisa said with a startled laugh. "They're separated."

"Well, when will she be released?"

Elisa shrugged. "She told me she doesn't have anybody to post bail, so she might not _be_ getting out."

"For how long?" Lex asked, standing upright, arms relaxed.

She sighed. "As long as it takes to go to trial, longer if a jury decides she's to go to Juvy."

Brooklyn clenched his jaw. "She's at your precinct?"

"Don't even think about it," Elisa warned, meeting his gaze.

He gave a look of surprise. "Think about what? I was just asking where she was."

Elisa pinned him with a clearly doubtful look, but didn't argue. Knowing there was nothing to be done about Lydia, they all went inside for their breakfast. Elisa spoke to Goliath off to the side, eventually bringing Lex into the mix, and the three of them left together. Shortly after, Brooklyn, Broadway and Angela split up for patrols.

As the night went on, at one point Brooklyn caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. In the midst of a glide, he didn't dare take his gaze away from the course for long, so he only glanced away for a split second – long enough to confirm that there was nothing that way. For a short while he puzzled over it, being high enough that no buildings could be accredited to having caused the flash he thought he saw, but he satisfied himself by blaming it on a flare or helicopter.

Not much longer and he found himself near the precinct he knew so well. The temptation to glide down and have a talk with Lydia was hard to resist, harder still when he thought of her trapped in a jail cell with three hostile men nearby. But he trusted Elisa and the rest of the police, deciding that Lydia was safe, if bored and frustrated.

He had to laugh as he thought about that: he only knew Lydia so well, yet he could easily envision her pacing in a cell out of sheer boredom. He hoped she had some way to amuse herself, even if it was bummed off the police in the precinct.

Several foiled robberies, assaults and break-ins later, he returned to the Castle, roughly an hour before dawn judging by the glare in the sky.

He was shocked to find Lydia _there_, innocently sitting out in the grass, sketchbook in hand. She seemed to be drawing the ramparts from her spot against the wall, and she definitely didn't notice him right away.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

She jumped, fumbling with and ultimately dropping her pencil. She swung overly wide eyes on him. "Geez," she sighed, "give a little warning that you're here." She patted her chest, then sought out the pencil again.

He had already come closer, crouching near her. "You didn't answer me," he pointed out.

She pouted. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Elisa told us you were arrested," he snapped. "You didn't break out, did you?"

Her eyebrows shot up, regarding him with disbelief. "I considered it," she admitted. "But I'm more surprised that you suggested it as though it was my only option."

"Elisa also mentioned you said no one would post bail for you," he shot back.

"_Almost_ nobody, as it turns out," she countered. "Without warning, they let me out, directed me to a taxi, which took me to a building, to the top floor, and to a helicopter, which took me here," she explained rapidly.

"Xanatos paid bail for you?" Brooklyn asked in shock, sitting up straighter.

"As far as I know, yes," she nodded. "There was an empty sketchbook inside," she tapped it, propped up in her lap, "along with pencils, an eraser, and a ruler."

He narrowed his eyes. "And you didn't question him?"

"Mr. Xanatos?" she clarified. "Why bother? I'm healthily amused."

With a groan, Brooklyn folded his wings so he could lean against the wall next to her. He looked over her open page as he replied, "With Xanatos, there's always something bigger going on. You should've asked."

"And allowed myself to be manipulated?"

That quip stunned him. And the smirk she gave him made him think she must be far cleverer than he'd thought. She made it sound like she'd rather deal with events as they happen instead of allowing herself to be swayed by words. But to react instinctively took a lot of confidence – a lesson he knew well.

"So you'd prefer sitting here, waiting for things to happen?" he asked.

She shrugged, then tapped the sketchbook with her pencil. "I'm content as things are."

". . .You're an odd girl," he said at last, having difficulty understanding her.

"Said the _gargoyle_," she replied, using the ruler to make a vertical line.

He laughed. "Still, Lydia, you should have asked why Xanatos would pay your bail."

"I could always ask if and when he finds a superb attorney to defend me."

"Lydia," he said again, more firmly. When she looked at him, he went on. "You're making me worry about you. It's like you don't care what's going on around you."

To his surprise, she looked chagrined, glancing away as though ashamed. She pressed her pencil flat against the paper, not replying. As seconds ticked by, he grew concerned that he'd said something horribly wrong. Trying to appear friendly, he put a hand on her shoulder –

In one swift motion, she got to her feet, swinging the book onto the grass as she did so. She stalked away without a word. He started to get up, pausing out of curiosity as to what precisely she had been drawing. He saw the tall spire they all roosted on, individual stones partially done with sharp lines, and on top. . . She had begun drawing a stone Lex, he saw, most of his face and one arm, outstretched, shaded and blocky-looking. And beside this partial Lex was himself, fully finished, arms and wings curling threateningly, mouth agape, and utterly tiny from so high up.

It struck him in a strange way, thinking he had be drawn first, the only 'finished' part of the entire image. Not only that, but she knew which places he and Lex took up every night. He wondered if she knew the significance of his place, directly beneath Goliath's – the second-in-command's place.

Before he got up, he flipped the pad closed and snatched up all the items he could spot easily, putting them on the table inside. He thought over where she might have gone, not knowing the castle well. Thinking he could hear footsteps, he followed them, not bothering to hurry.

Then he could hear talking, recognizing first Lydia's voice, then Xanatos' and Fox's. They were in Xanatos' office.

". . .cordially invited me?" Lydia was saying.

"I didn't think you would complain," Xanatos returned smoothly. "I did bail you out – and that was your first helicopter ride, wasn't it?"

"Admittedly," she replied. "But you never gave me a reason."

Brooklyn understood now. She was taking his advice, seeking out Xanatos to question him why he was helping her. He felt oddly proud of her – of himself. Though he wasn't quite sure why he remained by the door, instead of showing himself.

For a moment, he let the "Mission Impossible" theme play in his head, almost laughing aloud.

"You're a curious girl," Fox commented. "You're not being ungrateful, are you?"

Lydia sighed. "No, mother," she snapped sarcastically. "But being this _is_ my life, I'd like a reason. Am I asking too much, oh Great Ones?"

Xanatos laughed warmly. "Fox already gave you the reason: you're a curious girl. Oh, and I _did_ get that background check I was going for."

"_There's_ some good news," she laughed. "Okay, what do you know?"

"Veronica Lewis," Fox started. "That was your legal name."

"I changed it," Lydia retorted, "obviously."

"But why?" Xanatos asked. "The school records show you were injured a lot through grade school, and then you abruptly changed. You became such an excellent student that you graduated two years ahead of your class, offered the Valedictorian spot. The list of extracurricular activities alone is impressive – self-study classes, clubs, extra credit, everything. So why did you remove yourself from your family registry and change your name?"

No response.

Brooklyn wondered what was going on in there, but he didn't think he could risk glancing around the door; Xanatos and Fox would definitely notice, if not Lydia as well.

"I really don't have to explain myself to you," she said at last.

"Fair enough," Fox relented.

"Now maybe you guys could mention why you hid my sketchbooks when I came in the room?"

There were surprised laughs from the married couple, who obviously hadn't expected Lydia to notice. There was the sound of something lifted and dropped on the desk, then moved across its surface.

"I want to ask you," Fox began, "if you recognize any of these."

There was a pause, and then Lydia said, "Nuh-uh."

"They're all signed as Lydia Smith," Xanatos told her. "Even before you legally changed your name."

"What does that matter? I always liked the name," she said carelessly.

"But you don't remember drawing these?" Fox asked.

"I told you I didn't."

There was another long pause, and in his head, Brooklyn hummed a few notes from the song.

"Well, that's surprising," Xanatos said at last.

"I'm going to regret asking, but why?" Lydia spoke up.

"Because these are all dated," Fox explained. "This is a picture of _this_ castle, Lydia. Don't you think it depicts something you couldn't have known about five years ago?"

There was a harsh sigh. "What are you asking, exactly?"

"How did you know about gargoyles before we did?" Xanatos said, bluntly.

The song in Brooklyn's mind cut off very abruptly, all senses becoming sharply attuned to the room at his back.

"Before you did?" Lydia echoed.

"Look at the date," Fox urged. "You drew this three weeks before the castle and gargoyles were ever brought here. So, how did you know?"

"I told you; I didn't," Lydia denied. "I didn't draw that."

There was another lengthy pause, and then Xanatos started again. "There's more." Pages were flipped. "The Grimorum Arcanorum, and very detailed at that; Puck and Titania's Mirror; this one is Demona, casting the stone sleep spell; Derek, before and after becoming Talon; you've sketched several different Hunters. . ."

Nothing was said for an increasingly long moment. It grew so tense that Brooklyn could make out the individual breathing of the three occupants in the next room, as well as the beats of his own heart. Why wasn't she saying anything?

"I told you," she finally said, quietly. "I didn't draw that."

When he heard her footsteps bringing her towards the door, Brooklyn made a mad sprint for the nearest corner, rounding it with as little sound as he could. It led to a staircase leading up, which he took on all fours as he tried to be quicker.

He could hear and recognize both Lex and Hudson speaking as he reached the outside, choosing to pause and make sure he wasn't breathing hard (because both men would undoubtedly notice and question him about it) before stepping out into the night. He regarded them almost carelessly, asking, "Has anyone else come back yet?"

"Nay," Hudson answered, leaning against the castle wall. "But we've nothing to worry about just yet."

Lex threw a smirk over at Brooklyn while Hudson had been speaking. He said now, "Did you notice the book in the dining room?"

"Yeah, Lydia was brought here," Brooklyn told him.

Lex raised his brows. "And you weren't the one who did it?"

"Why would you assume it was me?" Brooklyn shot back, surprised. "Why does everyone seem to think I would break her out of jail?"

Hudson chuckled.

"It just seemed like something you'd do," Lex laughed. "So how did she get here?"

"Xanatos," Brooklyn replied.

"So where is she now?" Lex asked, peering over the castle wall.

Brooklyn almost reached out to swipe Lex back, stopping himself mainly out of shock. Was he was really being so possessive of Lydia, that he didn't want Lex looking for her?

"Dunno," he answered at last. "Last I knew, she went looking for Xanatos." Blast, and now he was keeping it a secret that he'd been eavesdropping?

"Hey, there she is now."

There was a yelp and the sound of a body hitting grass beyond the edge of the wall, and Lex laughed. Brooklyn Came closer, hearing what was clearly Lydia's voice say, "Well, that failed."

As Brooklyn peered over the edge, spotting Lydia as she rose to her feet and dusted off her pants, Lex explained, "Looks like she was trying gymnastics."

Hudson joined them, chuckling as Lydia continued whatever it was she was up to. She did cartwheels, handsprings, attempted to do a backflip; and, apparently, she wasn't very good at it. Half the time she tumbled, ending up flat out on the grass. She didn't seem to notice she was being watched.

And every time she got back to her feet after falling, she said to herself, "Fail."

Broadway and Angela returned roughly ten minutes before dawn, but Goliath hadn't. Knowing their fearless leader, however, nobody was too tense just yet. Goliath could get out of trouble just as easily as he could get into it. And these days, he also tended to roost on Elisa's balcony for the day.

As they all took up their poses moments before sunrise, Brooklyn wondered, briefly, what Xanatos was planning with Lydia. Even if they were allies, or despite it, if Lydia ended up in danger because of that man. . .

He saw a sliver of sunlight, and all thoughts ended.


	5. One More Bad Day

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Five_

A few hours after dawn – which was roughly Lydia's scheduled bedtime these days – she was offered a room in the "castle" section of the building to sleep in. Inspecting it, she found, was nothing short of miraculous.

But not so much in the "that's amazing" way, as opposed to the "there's definitely something up here" kind of way.

The room itself was half the size of her apartment, hardly big enough to fit the bed and wardrobe stuffed inside (and this counted as the first time she'd seen a wardrobe up close. . .and in use). The fact that the room itself seemed to be ready for use rose her suspicions, though only slightly. After all, rich people tended to waste money on keeping their homes neat regardless of whether or not that particular room was being used.

So she inspected the wardrobe, just to be sure. She found it filled with quite a few items – clothes, of course, but also shoes, gloves, jewelry, hair accessories and a large makeup kit. She was slightly weirded out by it all, fighting with herself to take a glimpse at the size tags for the clothes and shoes.

Her eye twitched as she came to the realization that she'd been expected to stay here. Everything here was her size, or close to it. There were even undergarments – a dozen bras, all in different sizes and colors, and a choice of regular undies or thongs.

She laughed outright. There was no way she was going to torture her nethers with a slingshot.

As it was, however, she was still wearing her pajamas from the previous evening, albeit underneath the borrowed clothes handed over by the police. She made a mental note to return them, and considered whether or not to wash them first.

_Might as well,_ she reasoned with herself. _They'll probably just get DNA evidence off it anyhow._

As soon as she crawled into the bed to sleep, she didn't feel so untrusting of the _Xanatoses_. It was easily the most comfortable she'd ever been in, which wasn't saying much considering she just had the one she grew up on and the one in her apartment. Even so, with the comforter's warmth doing its magic, it wasn't difficult in the least to drift off to sleep.

When she woke up, the clock heralded the time at 6:30. Not long till dusk, and way too late. She overslept her usual by two hours! Her work started at nine, ended at four, and was quite a walk away. Being the type of girl she was, she refused taxi services most of the time and never got on a bus. Her bike and roller blades got her where she needed to go plenty quickly (even if she had to cut through traffic to do it).

But she had neither here, and it was Monday. At least she still had a while to play with the wardrobe.

She hadn't gotten much of a look at the clothes earlier, which left a lot to be discovered. Specifically just how much she liked what she found. Being a kind of punkish, rock-music-loving, back talking youth like the majority of her generation, the clothes were to her taste. For instance, vests, fingerless gloves, belts, zippers, and lots of pants. In fact there were few skirts -- not that she disliked them, but it was note-worthy.

And military boots to top it off? She was starting to love this place. Damn, but the rich people knew how to live. Then again, they probably cheated, blackmailed, and stole most of it. Didn't they all?

She chose a selection quickly, included the makeup kit, and took it all to the bathroom. She was also happy to find the number of hair-styling products sitting on the counter. With her hair at the length it was, there wasn't much she could do with it, but there was something she'd been wanting to try. . .

And, hell, if you're going to make a ruckus one way, might as well make a ruckus every other way, right?

Long ago, she learned a little something about how to manage time, how to get things done as quickly as possible. Without it, she'd still be in high school right now. She applied this knowledge to her best ability, and in a little more than half an hour, she had showered, dressed, and made herself up.

Only a little of the castle's setup was in her mind, but it was enough to get her to the dining room, with its big, arching doorway to the outdoors. She had to descend the stairs to get to it, catching a muffled conversation as she went. Seems like the sun had set already, being earlier October (and she bet the gargoyles loved winter, with its longer nights).

"Actually the world record is thirteen thousand, fifty three jumps consecutively, and it took seventeen hours," she told them, overhearing that (for some reason) the subject was jump ropes. She thought it was such a trivial thing to talk about, but then, it was probably very quaint, being able to talk about nonsense without a care.

Six heads looked over at her and Bronx lumbered over, whining, as she made it all the way down the steps. Elisa wasn't here, she saw, and the whole clan was seated around the table. It amused her, how normal they looked, just eating breakfast -- after dark.

"You knew that?" Lex asked, seeming surprised.

"Nope," she answered honestly, smiling. "Sounded convincing though, didn't it?"

A few laughs were her reward for the joke, even as she knew they were all at least a little bit startled. After all, she was wearing all black -- vest, pants with laces up the sides, boots, and wrist straps -- with her hair going every which-way (thank you, hair gel!), black eyeshadow and red lipstick. Even her nails were done with that theme in mind, painted red, except that she'd wiped the tips off so they were only _half_ red.

"What's with you?" Brooklyn asked, breaking the momentary stun that seemed to hold everyone.

She shrugged as she approached the table, flipping a chair around so she could straddle it. "Just messing around. Surely you've heard of little girls playing dress-up before?" she teased.

"Well, yeah, but --"

"Yer not goin' to work like that, are ye?" Hudson said, asking the one question everyone wanted to know. She was actually a little surprised they all knew she had a job, but she supposed either Elisa or Brooklyn had shared.

"Oh, Hell no," she laughed, rolling a muffin between her hands. "If I showed up like this, I'd be fired faster than -- than the lion who got a job at the Chicken Factory."

Although this brought up chuckles, Broadway piped up with, "How would a lion get a job at a Chicken Factory?"

She couldn't help a smile. "It's an analogy," she told him. "And _clearly_ his job would be taste-testing."

"Clearly," Brooklyn agreed, laughing. "Which would be how he got fired."

"And on his first day," she continued. "Management really should've known better."

"Wait, I'm confused," Broadway interrupted.

"They're just joking," Lex told him. "Besides, they're wrong. He'd have a job mopping."

"He doesn't have opposable thumbs," Lydia point out.

Though he was smiling, Goliath was also shaking his head. His thoughts were almost audible: _Those teenagers._

Well, that might have been wholly true, if she had any idea how old Brooklyn and the guys were. Or if they aged at all liked humans did. She added it to the list of questions she wanted to ask Brooklyn later.

"Lydia," Angela spoke up, "when does your job start?"

"Nine. If my numbers are right, I have an hour before I have to get going," Lydia answered.

"One of us could always fly you there. It'd save you time," the other lady offered.

"I hadn't thought of that," she admitted.

"Don't bother," Xanatos' voice came as he entered through another doorway.

"Quick question," she interrupted, before he could go on. "Do you always join in a conversation as you enter the room, without saying 'hello' first?"

"Do you?" he shot back.

"It's kinda fun, yeah," she agreed. "Except I'm usually bullshitting. What are we not bothering to do?" she asked, referring to his earlier statement. She didn't notice the surprised looks she got for swearing.

"Don't bother getting ready for work." Was it just her, or did he look like he had bad news?

She clenched her jaw, already knowing where this was going. "Lemme guess. . ."

"They fired you," he said with regret, "as soon as the police showed up to question your coworkers about you. They don't want somebody with a criminal record on the payroll --"

Her head hit the table. She could already see herself behind bars, at this rate. And all because police liked to chase her, because she had the instinct to run? She mumbled into the tablecloth. Suddenly her muffin (only missing two bites) didn't look so appealing.

"I could take it to court for you," he offered.

She lifted her head with a mocking, "Don't bother."

He relented. Everyone else was still silent.

But the fact that he still stood there peaked her attention. "Well, I was asleep a whole ten hours. What other bad news do you have for me?"

"Since I was the one who paid your bail, I was contacted --"

"Cut to the chase."

"You're remanded to this building until your court date," he finished abruptly. He looked annoyed, but that was fine; she was annoyed, too.

"How did you manage that?" Lex asked.

"I vouched for her," Xanatos explained simply.

Lydia rose, muffin in hand, and headed out to the courtyard. Anybody could see she wasn't happy -- and they all did.

"C'mon, it's not that bad," Brooklyn tried.

"Yeah, this place is great," Lex added.

"You're free to explore the whole building," Xanatos told her.

She snorted. "I can see the appeal," she said mainly to the older man, "but a magnificent prison is still a prison." She didn't bother with trying to keep the disdain from her voice. So much for her good mood about hanging out with gargoyles and having new clothes to play with -- it all went dull after losing her job and getting confined all in less than ten hours.

"Lydia. . ." she heard Brooklyn say.

"Not now," was her answer. "Eat your food."

"What about you?"

She lifted her muffin before going around the corner, out of sight. Muffled voices followed her as she went, talking quietly to each other. She could recognize who was speaking, but not what was said. In the end, she decided it didn't matter. Later, when she was a bit calmer, she would ask Brooklyn about it.

The question now was what would happen next. It was a jinxed question, she knew; but it still begged to be asked. She had a wild vision of a helicopter approaching to blow the castle to bits and blamed all those stories she'd heard from Brooklyn for it.

Biting down on her muffin to hold it in place, she took a run for the wall ahead of her, knowing she could scale it. That was the great thing about having spent many nights in this place, as well as her natural observant habits: she had time to scout and plan. Escape routes again. It was a burden to always be worrying when next she'd have to run, but at the same time, infinitely helpful when those times came.

And useful in times like this, when she just wanted to get to higher ground the quickest way possible.

The boots she wore helped her climb, taking less effort than usual. She sat on the wall once she was up there, chewing on her muffin. She wasn't hungry, really; rather, she was forcing herself to eat to remain healthy. After all, she was tiny -- if she was malnourished as well, she would hardly be able to take care of herself.

"Five foot three," she murmured to herself. "Jesus, I'm small." The new direction of her thoughts wasn't improving her mood any, despite the distraction. With a sigh, she laid out on the wall, which was a little hard given the setup. Lucky she had such good balance -- when she concentrated. She stared up at the sky now, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

One thing was certain: she was going to lose her apartment. She had enough money stashed away to keep paying the $300 rent for another year, but she couldn't see that helping any if she were in prison. Or juvy; how exactly did it work for emancipated minors?

She had to laugh at herself. All those books she read, all that research she did, all that time and effort spent -- and she didn't know too much about emancipation. She might as well be wearing a dunce cap. The irony of it kind of burned.

She wasn't going to stay here. Sure, the building was huge and there was infinite resources, but it's like she said: a magnificent prison is still a prison. If she had to sneak out and flee from her court date, so be it. Why not? She'd taken care of herself for seventeen years, made it when logically she shouldn't. She could do it again.

And again and again, if she had to. It's not like she had strong connections to this city.

A vision of the gargoyles came to mind, Elisa in the picture too, with Brooklyn in front. She shut her eyes, hoping to dispell the image. She shouldn't have ever come back here. A girl like her, with such a chaotic lifestyle, should never have friends. She never did before. But what was done, was done.

One by one, her reasons and plans for leaving the city were thrown out.


	6. Nothing Much To Talk About

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Six_

What was there to be done now? Everything had been decided for her, without her consent. He imagined it was maddening; hell, he could probably empathize. He knew what it was like, waking up to find your world had changed without your knowledge.

Brooklyn wasn't entirely sure he wanted to approach her yet. Lydia was reclined on the castle wall, hands beneath her head. At this distance, a human wouldn't have been able to make out much detail, but he could see she was awake, eyes on the stars. She didn't look happy.

He couldn't blame her for that.

And he couldn't decide what to do. Normally, after breakfast they'd go out to patrol the city. But with Lydia here, looking so down, he felt he'd rather be here to cheer her up. At the same time, he didn't know if it was wise to try; he knew women could be unpredictable, and had dealt with enough -- shall we say, crazy? -- women like that to know to be careful. Even after taking down a thug to return a stolen purse, even with everyone in the city knowing about them, there were still some people. . .

This was a bad train of thought and it always left him perturbed. He shook his head, reanalyzing his choices. A, go out to patrol; B, stay and chat with Lydia; C, stay but just keep an eye on Lydia. Option 'B' was sounding the best. Besides which, it would give him a chance to talk to her about "Veronica Lewis." That was something she hadn't mentioned in any of theirs talks before, and he wanted to know why.

"Are you going to stay here with her?" Angela asked.

The only reason why he didn't jump was that he knew she was nearby. "I was considering it," he answered. "But I'm not sure it's a smart idea."

"You should," she advised.

He glanced at her in question.

"One thing TV has right -- girls love to talk," she explained. "Isn't it dangerous for her to be like that?" she asked a bit sharper, wondering at Lydia's positioning.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," Brooklyn mumbled to himself. He'd puzzled over that same thing himself: why she didn't seem at all scared about being in such precarious places. "All right, you guys go on without me. I'll see what I can do with her."

Everyone left accordingly, Hudson taking Brooklyn's place in patrol. He felt bad for the aging gargoyle, but knew that despite his age, Hudson still enjoyed being useful to the clan. Taking someone's place in patrol every now and again served to keep his spirits up.

"Lydia," he called, hoping he wouldn't startle her off the wall. He climbed up to her place, getting only a grunt of acknowledgment from her. Crouching down until he was comfortable, he went on, "I don't think that's safe."

She shrugged. "I haven't fallen off yet."

"You could."

" 'Could' doesn't mean 'will'."

"Wasn't it you who said, 'If there's a chance it'll happen, it will?' " He recalled that conversation, and judging by her laugh, she did, too.

"Ouch," she said, pulling herself up, "that one actually hurt."

"Maybe you should start taking notes so you don't forget what you say later."

"I didn't forget. I failed to recall." She stuck her tongue out at him.

He would've done the same, except that the way his head was built, he literally couldn't. It was one of the annoyances he faced, being the type of gargoyle he was.

"Why didn't you jump?" he asked, then realized the double entendre of how that sounded. "I mean, I thought I would've startled you."

She had raised a brow at him in question and now nodded. "That's because I have a lot of awareness. I always know when someone's around, even when I sleep."

"I startled you yesterday," he pointed out.

". . .With the exception of when I draw," she laughed. "I was totally focused on the picture then." She tilted her head. "By the way, what were you guys talking about when I left the room?"

_If you were in the room, you'd know,_ he thought. "Some stuff that doesn't concern you," he offered, hoping she'd lose interest.

"Anything that did?"

He gave. "We were asking Xanatos about what happened while we were all asleep. He told us about all the strings he pulled to get you remanded here, instead of a prison. He also said you can keep living in the room you were in before, or -- if it would make you any calmer -- he could get you a bigger room."

She snorted. "That's what the rich guy does right before taking advantage of the girl in all the movies."

He laughed. "I doubt it. Xanatos and Fox are totally into each other."

She turned a glare on him. "Well thanks for saying I'm not sexy."

He did a double-take. Where had _that_ come from? "I didn't say that!" His mind raced for a way to fix this -- until he saw she was laughing to herself. He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, funny."

"I was amused," she said lightly.

On another note. . . "You know, you really look different," he started. With her hair styled new, her nails painted, and that makeup -- it was like looking into the face of another Lydia.

She grinned. "I forgot already, honestly."

That surprised him. "Really."

"Really. In fact, I should take it off," she said to herself, inspecting her nails.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing," he retracted quickly. "Just different."

When she looked at him next, he found he had no idea what she was thinking. That look seemed to be measuring him up, in a way. In one quick motion, she swung her legs over the wall and dropped onto the courtyard, before he could do anything gallant like offer to help her down.

She took the landing well, too. Compared to how she threw herself around yesterday, he wouldn't have thought she could be coordinated like that.

He hopped down after her, saying, "Where are you going?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "I told you, to take the makeup off."

"And then what?" he asked, making pace with her.

"Then, I have to talk to Mr. Xanatos."

"Why do you keep calling him 'mister'?"

"Am I not supposed to?"

"Stop answering questions with questions."

She smirked. "Because it shows and demands respect," she told him. "And it also maintains distance."

He thought about that. "The whole 'name' and 'title' thing, to gargoyles, is really strange."

"How so?"

"Well, none of us were ever named in the past," he started.

"You said so before."

"We all figured nothing needed names."

She slanted a smile at him. "Like the mountain was 'the mountain' and the river was 'the river'?"

"Exactly."

"Aren't those names, too?"

He stopped short. "I didn't think of that."

She shrugged. "Someone had to. And naming things is for coordination. Think of it -- if you're living in a place that has rivers on three sides, and you want to refer to one, what would you say?"

"Uh, East River?"

"And if it weren't for naming the directions. . ?"

He laughed. "Alright, you made your point." Thoughtfully, he added, "I'm surprised you didn't ask how gargoyles could tell each other apart," remembering a conversation with a boy long ago.

"That's easy; you all look different," she replied. "That makes me think, though -- can gargoyles be twins?"

The question surprised him. In truth, no, he didn't know of any instance of gargoyle twins. He didn't even think a gargoyle woman could lay more than one egg. He told her as much.

He only noticed they'd stopped moving when she turned to face him. After a few moments of blank staring, he realized she was standing in a doorway, holding a door. This must be her room, he realized, feeling stupid for just standing there. He turned and left, shaking his head even as he heard her laughing to herself. _She did it on purpose, for fun,_ he told himself.

He was downstairs when she came down, reclining on a chair, feet up, in the one room he knew she knew how to find. She had completely removed the makeup (though she kept the nail polish), and she was holding a sketchbook in hand.

"Want to chill?" he offered, referring to the table his feet were propped up on.

She glanced at the table before grinning. "That depends."

"On?"

"Are you gonna keep sitting just like that?"

An idea flitted through his mind -- an idea he wasn't sure he wanted to believe just yet. "Probably. Why?"

With a lift of the book in her hand, she said, "Can I draw you?"

What surprised him the most wasn't that he figured she wanted to, nor that it was peculiar she wanted to at all; it was that she felt she should ask his permission first. "I don't see why not," he answered.

She almost had an aura of childish glee about her when she took a seat, flipped the book open, and miraculously conjured a pack of pencils from somewhere he hadn't spotted. He wondered for a moment what else was in that pack, knowing it couldn't be _just_ pencils.

He stayed still for her, feeling oddly uncomfortable about the whole thing. He'd never posed for a picture like this before. Sure, he'd been in a few (thanks to Elisa and the clan being part of several little parties for the holidays, here in the castle), but he'd never sat down to be sketched before.

The fact that she kept looking up at very specific parts of him, little by little, was unnerving. He could honestly say that even being stared at so closely was a first. This gave him time, too; time to study her much in the same way she was doing to him. One of the things he noticed right off the bat was a habit of hers: she would make a motion with the pencil repeatedly before he would hear the scratch of pencil on paper. She also propped the sketchbook on her thighs, close to her face, with only her eyes visible above it. Every so often, she turned the book this way or that, then set it straight again.

But these were merely the habits he discovered. They made conversation as she drew, and he started to notice -- really notice -- her eyes. Violet eyes. A rare color, indeed, and one he'd seen before. It made him nostalgic, remembering again about the girl he'd once longed for. Sure, he could chock it up to a crush; she had been a generation above himself, after all, and such a coupling was unheard of for the clan. But it didn't change the fact that every time he'd seen her, he'd stopped to look a little longer.

He should stop thinking about it, he knew. There were more pressing matters to consider, things that had nothing to do with a past long gone. It was just ironic, that was all -- that Lydia happened to look a lot like that female. Hell, they were even about the same size; that poor gargoyle was small compared to others of her build (and gargoyles did have noticeable sets of builds, sort of like human races.)

As they talked, he brought up how calm she seemed, after having just lost her job and everything else. He wanted to know if it was anything like the clan's own startling awakening. Her response stunned him.

"It's not a big thing," she shrugged.

He was quiet for a moment, staring at her. She looked so. . ._unconcerned._ "I thought it was a big blow. You left the room in a rage, didn't you?"

She gave a silent laugh. "It _was_ a big blow," she agreed, focusing more on the sketchbook in her hand (and his right knee, from the looks of it) than the conversation. "But I learned a long time ago to let things go, regardless of how big or small they were."

". . .Like your family?" he asked quietly, hoping he didn't broach the subject too soon.

Her hand stopped moving, her eyelids lowered, and for one terrified moment, he thought he'd ruined their budding friendship. But she replied easily, "So you heard that, huh?"

Right then, he was torn. He wanted this talk to happen, wanted to know more about her -- God knows he'd told _her_ just about the clan's entire history -- yet at the same time, he didn't want to make her uncomfortable or angry.

He finally said, "Yeah, I did."

She glanced up to meet his eyes for the first time since she started drawing. Setting the book down, she placed the pencil on top of it, then linked her hands on the table.

"Ask away," she invited.


	7. Veronica Lewis Speaks

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Seven_

She could hardly believe he was asking these questions, and even more so, she was surprised at herself for answering. Her past, after all, wasn't a very calm thing, to say the least. She wasn't shown much thought or kindness growing up, she couldn't remember ever feeling loved -- or wanted, for that matter -- and she taught herself to trust no one. It was how she'd survived for so long, learning to rely only on herself, because _she_ was the only person she could trust would be there.

Considering Brooklyn to be a friend actually counted him in on a very short list, and one that hadn't been used in a long time. If she thought about it (which she had), then she owed him answers, regardless of how he learned about her. She had told him very little about her past during the talks they'd had before, even though he'd told _her_ just about everything he could think of -- about himself, the gargoyles here, their clan from a millennia ago, their learning experiences and all the people they'd met, human or otherwise.

And so, she owed him a story: the story of Veronica Lewis. She invited him to ask whatever he wanted, steeling herself to answer them all. It was a very sensitive subject, one that required a lot of trust; she wondered if she trusted him that much, then asked herself what he could possibly do with that information. The answer was easy: next to nothing.

His first question, as it turned out, was the very beginning of her story, small though the question was.

"You were adopted?"

She nodded. "I was two months old, or so they told me. My biological mother died in childbirth, and no one ever knew who my father was. Either my mother didn't know, or she never told anyone."

"So who adopted you?"

"Donald and Diane Lewis." She had to snort. "I was a replacement girl, as it turns out." At his confused look, she explained, "Diane had just finished recovering from a miscarriage that took the life of her baby girl. From what I heard, the baby was just a month early, but somehow she didn't make it. I guess Diane was devastated, which is why she sought out another daughter."

Brooklyn looked solemn. She wondered what he was thinking, having trouble reading the expression of someone like him -- not just that his face was shaped different, but those eyebrows, too. . .He always looked so serious, like he was measuring you up. "You," he said, after a long pause.

She gave a sad smile. "Yeah, me. Donald should've known better than to let her go nuts like that. Hell, nobody should replace a dead dog with a new puppy, let along doing it with human babies." She grimaced, once again thinking what a horrible decision Diane had made.

"It sounds like she would've spoiled you, though," he pointed out.

She shrugged. "I don't remember much from the first five years or so, but I do remember getting along with Jake. Ah, he's their biological son, four years older than me," she explained quickly. "But I don't remember ever being. . .happy," she confessed. It was a peculiar emotion in her mind; how did one know when one was happy? Sure, a smile was supposed to be a dead give away, but did that mean every smile was a happy one?

It seemed that last comment bothered Brooklyn, for he swept on quickly. "How did things go sour?"

Now _that_ was the part she was dreading. She could feel the emotion leaving her face, flexing her jaw as her memories sifted through the things she dared not think about for too long. "It started in first grade." In a sudden curious moment, she asked, "You know how human school works, right?" When he nodded, she said, "Good, then I don't have to worry about explaining that."

She didn't want to continue, but that didn't change the fact she felt obliged to. So she went on, "I started getting bullied in first grade. Within the first week, I was pushed off the monkey bars and had to go to the hospital with a broken leg. Diane and Donald looked really pissed about the whole thing, and -- geez, I don't know what they were thinking," she laughed, feeling irony set in. "I guess they thought it only logical that I pay for the hospital expenses."

From across the table, she thought she heard a quiet growl from Brooklyn. If nothing else, he showed displeasure by dropping his feet from their reclined places, sitting more aptly to attention.

"Before I entered Junior High," she continued, "I ended up being sent to the hospital seven times -- I almost died twice, even. I don't think the bullies ever knew how badly they were hurting me, but hell, you'd think the teachers would've berated them once or twice." She chewed her lip. "It definitely strained things back 'home.' Diane especially was distant with me. I even remember coming home from school once to find that my room had been changed to the 'Den,' and all my stuff had been moved to the attic." Right then, she remembered again the incredible pain and rage she'd felt, coming home at fourteen to find her whole safe haven had been moved.

". . .And then?" Brooklyn prodded.

Silence now. Compared to moments before, when her emotions rioted with memories of past wrongs, it seemed everything in her went quiet. Peaceful, even; and she could consider leaving that home being the most peaceful time of her life. No chaotic school, no bullies, no strained silences at home. . . The moment she'd gotten that apartment, it had been peaceful. After all, _no _attention was better than _negative _attention.

"And then I learned," she answered. "I figured the bullies would never stop coming, so I started learning how to escape, how to run. God knows a little person like me could never fight back well, but I'm built little enough to make it where bigger people wouldn't. I used that. Between running and studying, though, there was little time for anything else. It's a damn good thing I have so much energy," she finished with a laugh.

Thinking she should explain a bit more, she kept going. "In school I managed such excellence that I skipped grades six and ten. As soon as I graduated, I wanted out of that house. I didn't want to depend on those _parents_ or see my _brother_ ever again," she sneered, feeling disdain well up inside her. "It wasn't difficult getting Don and Diane to sign the papers to get me removed from the family registry. I don't think they even knew what it was about." She took a moment to gather her thoughts as Brooklyn asked more questions.

"Didn't they miss you at all?" He seemed concerned, the silly guy. "They should've feared for your well-being, being sent to the hospital so many times. Did they even say good-bye?"

"It's good you brought up the hospital," she pointed out. "No, they didn't miss me. No, they didn't say goodbye. I didn't, either. And this might've been a stupid thought on my part, but I had them sign over the hospital bills to me. There was a quite a bit of money racked up," she said matter-of-factly.

"Wait," he snapped. "You took the bills? Meaning you'll have to pay them off?"

"_Am_ paying them off," she corrected. "At the time, it made sense. I didn't want them to think about me anymore, didn't want them to be able to say I didn't pull my weight. At the time, I wanted everything that was my fault to be _my_ burden, to take care of as I wanted."

Disbelief was written across his face. "It was their job as parents to take care of you," he disagreed. "If they were your guardians, then legally --"

Something on her face must've stopped him short. She knew exactly what he was saying, what he was trying to reason into existence. The problem is that the past was the past. Those people never loved her. If anything, Diane probably hated her -- hated her for not being the daughter she'd lost. But then, Lydia was fairly certain that Diane was clinically insane. If nothing else, the woman needed some counseling. She hadn't dealt with her grief right in the first place (who the Hell replaces a stillbirth baby with an adopted baby, anyway?); she never should have passed the screening all potential surrogate parents had to take.

"I know what you're thinking," she told the gargoyle across from her. "Believe me, I tried reasoning the same thing before. But I was a ghost in that house, never given a thought or care. I can't even remember the last time I was called down to dinner or woken up in time for school. Diane never washed my clothes or cooked for me. Any toys I had to play with I had to find first." At an unwanted memory, she shuddered. "That. . ._house_ was no more a home than a personal hell." _Or that's what it was for me,_ she added silently. _I bet Jake had a grand ol' time._

"Surely you had friends, at least. . ." he tried again.

This talk was only depressing her. She replied, "You didn't hear a word, did you? No, I didn't have friends. The best I was treated was with indifference. But I made a lot of waves in school, devoting so much effort to it. All the kids hated me, in their own ways." Her eyes dropped. "I'm used to being ignored or hated, and between the two, I greatly prefer the former."

It was becoming more and more clear that he couldn't believe her -- at least not fully. "No one's life is that. . .unlucky," he started. "_Something_ good must've happened."

Abruptly she found herself wishing to hurt him. If nothing else, it might clue him into the bitter way she'd lived. With a glare in his direction and sarcasm in her tone, she blurted, "Oh sure, maybe the _good_ thing was being able to see all the happiness going on around me. No, that _didn't_ inspire jealousy about everything I _didn't_ have and _wouldn't ever get._ Good god, the life of an orphan is the best ever!"

From a look, she couldn't tell if he was more shocked or offended. Maybe both. "I was just trying to shine some light on your life," he defended himself. "You graduated two years early, right? Isn't that a silver lining?"

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice as she replied, "Yeah, really sweet. Nothing like being hounded to motivate you."

"Lydia --"

"Don't even try!" she snapped, slamming her hands down on the table. She didn't often have a fit of rage, but she was losing this battle. Brooklyn jumped, startled at the move, even as she swept on. "You don't know how lucky you have it, do you?" she sneered. "Regardless of whatever peril you run into, whatever dangers you face, at the end of the night you _always_ have a place to return to, with people waiting, happy to see you!" Tears were coming dangerously close to the surface, though she didn't notice them right away. "At the end of the goddamn night, you're _wanted_ and _loved_ and have a _fuckin'_ family!"

Lord, she'd exploded. She even heard the accent in her own voice at the end -- an accent she didn't like much, but she was raised with it, so it was always just beneath the surface. In times like this, when she got really pissed, it comes rushing back as her control slips. Being raised in Brooklyn had that effect (and she was fully aware of the irony of Brooklyn's name).

Judging by said gargoyle's expression, she had completely stunned him. With a scoff aimed more at herself than anyone, she stalked from the room, wanting a few moments to cool down. She didn't care where she ended up in this castle or the building it was part of, as long as she could be alone there. It was the only ay she'd ever calm herself.

She should've seen this coming, she realized, descending a staircase with quick steps. Even _thinking_ about her time in that _house_ put her in a bad mood, of course she'd lose it by talking out loud about it.

Hate? No, that was never the governing emotion. She didn't hate the house or the people in it, or even all the time she'd felt was wasted there. If anything, it depressed her. She had more bad memories than empty ones, really -- all of which were because she'd sought attention and found none. She'd been completely ignored from the time she was a child, shown thought _only_ when it couldn't be avoided.

Like when she was sent to the hospital, which she was sure only served to infuriate Don and Diane. _Why did we adopt such a kid?_ her mind mocked them. _All she does is cost us money. The tax write-off isn't worth this._

Now she was further depressed. Leaning heavily on a wall, she stopped where she was. It would never do to go on thinking about this. Like she always did in times like this, she started counting what she _did_ have -- which wasn't much right then, but she was still a step above the homeless, in her opinion. She had people she could talk to. . .well, _gargoyles_ she could talk to. Right now she didn't have her apartment or anything within its walls, but she had a pretty prison she could play in. She had sketchbooks and tools, thanks to a certain nosy guy who apparently went and got them.

"Lost, Miss Lydia?" a voice said, in a cool drawl.

She recognized Owen by the tone alone. Knowing what she did about the man made it hard to keep from snickering around him (she'd read _A Mid-Summer Night's Dream_, after all), though she was good enough with expressions to put on a blank, unimpressed one for him.

"Probably," she answered. "Any insight into where I am?"

"This entire level is mostly only visited by Mr. and Mrs. Xanatos," he told her. "This is the floor they consider their living quarters."

She knew he was being stiff and sophisticated out of self-amusement, but it didn't stop her from feeling a little primitive in comparison. Whatever happened to those aced reading and writing classes? "Well, I followed a staircase down." Slanting a look at him, she asked, "Am I trespassing?"

"Your criminal record would suggest trespassing is but a small hurdle for you," he pointed out, the words somehow not sounding offensive. Damn, but he was _talented._ "No, you are not trespassing. Not until you start entering locked doors."

"Because I can just _wish_ myself through," she added sarcastically.

A cocked eyebrow was her response, making her wonder if she'd amused or annoyed the trickster behind the man. "As it turns out, Mr. and Mrs. Xanatos were wanting to speak with you soon."

God, his height irritated her. Then again, most everyone's did as well. "Where are they now?" she asked.

"I believe they're finishing a match as we speak."

" 'A match'?" she echoed, eyebrows raising.

"Yes. The room is this way -- and it's not off-limits," he added, gesturing the direction with a sweep of his arm. If nothing else, he certainly had the 'butler' routine down flat.

"Lead on," she all but sighed, trying to keep from laughing outright.

After a few turns and a bland conversation, they were at double-doors, which Owen knocked lightly at before throwing wide open. Lydia found herself staring at a very wide room that was exactly what would be seen at a dojo. Mats on the floor, dummies on one side of the room, and two people in the correct garb, both wearing black belts. If her memory served her right, the clothes were called a 'gi.'

She saw Fox throw her husband over her shoulder, who rolled with the landing and in turn tripped his wife. Both were back on their feet quickly, but it seemed that ended the 'match.' They turned their attention to the two standing in the doorway.

"Might I announce Miss Lydia," Owen said, bowing slightly to the couple.

"Yo," was Lydia's own introduction, lifting a hand. As it turned out, she wanted to talk to these two as well. She clasped her hands behind her back as Owen excused himself, leaving just the three. More than what she wanted out of this conversation, she wondered what _they_ wanted from _her._


	8. Invitations

**Disclaimer:**"Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

_**Of The Night**_

_Eight_

"If you'll excuse me," Xanatos spoke first, "I'll leave you two ladies to talk."

As he headed towards the doors, he touched Fox once on the cheek, a move that Lydia found herself envious of. Hell, she was even more envious of the smile Fox gave him in thanks. Her mood, already in the gutter, soured further. The moment the doors shut, signaling Xanatos was gone, Lydia burst.

"What did you want me for?" she all but snapped.

Fox gave her a mildly surprised look. "That's some gratitude you have, girl. But straight to the point is fine." She draped a towel around her neck before continuing. "We're having a Halloween party here on the thirtieth. Since you'll be staying with us past then, you're invited."

_Past then,_ Lydia repeated mentally. "When exactly is my court date?"

"November twenty-seventh. You'll be with us for Thanksgiving, too," Fox added sweetly, as though her words were a gift.

Lydia exhaled harshly with her displeasure. "Halloween party," she said.

Fox had a sly smile now. "Yes. You can dress up like anyone you like. Or any_thing_," she clarified. "David and I are going to publicly announce that the Gargoyles are all invited as well."

"It's the tenth," Lydia pointed out. "Halloween isn't for three weeks."

"Oh, I know. You've been given advance warning," Fox told her, "because I'm sure you've never had a dance lesson."

Lydia frowned. So that's what this was about? "You want to give me dance lessons to go to a party I haven't agreed to attend?"

"I know you have natural talent," Fox countered. "If you're anything like every other girl in this world, then you would love to dance, if given the chance. Well, I'm giving you the chance. Do I need to keep explaining?"

Lydia's mind was racing, visiting a thousand thoughts a second. "What if I don't want to dance anyway, regardless of the party?"

"Lydia, I don't think you realize this, but you _are_ attractive." Fox sounded exasperated at having to explain. "You're cute, you have big eyes and soft hair, and like I said before, you have natural grace. At some point, there's going to be a man in your life, and he's going to want to dance with you."

Lydia bristled. "Sounds like pity to me. 'Oh,'" she mocked, " 'you don't know how to dance. The only way to impress a man is to dance. How sad. How about I pity all over you so you learn to dance?'"

Fox's eye twitched. "You're unusually offensive. What happened this evening?"

For someone who looked so ridiculous with a tattoo on her face, Fox was perceptive. Lydia found herself respecting the older woman just a bit more. She scoffed. "What makes you think you could make it better? Do you have some kind of Tai Kwon Do spiritual band-aid skill?"

"Mental," Fox corrected.

Lydia stared blankly for a moment, then turned on her heel. "Bullshit," she quipped, taking quick steps to the door.

"You've got a messed-up way of showing gratitude," Fox snapped. "David went out on a limb for you, to keep you out of prison until your court date. He's going to hire a great lawyer for you. Do you realize the full implications of this?"

Lydia stopped after the first words, and now she thumped her head against the doors in defeat. "Are you going to keep waving this over my head?" She turned to see Fox. "At no point did I ask for help. You guys just keep spilling charity on someone who doesn't want any. Find some other sob story, would you?"

"David's been accused of adultery by the press," Fox swept on, heedless. "It's not enough to be investigated, but now he has to explain, over and over, why he's doing so much for a girl he never met before four days ago."

Lydia looked away, having nothing to say to this.

"The least you could do is show courtesy for all this," Fox told her. "And maybe, if you'd stop trying to reject everyone around you, you'd learn a little something about being accepted."

That caught Lydia's attention. She glanced up, wondering exactly what Fox knew about her past. The couple hadn't been eavesdropping via camera on her and Brooklyn's conversation, did they? She wouldn't put it past them, but how could she know for sure?

She shook her head. "Alright, you made your point."

"Just be friendly," Fox advised. "That's all we ask."

Lydia exhaled hard. "Fine. And. . .you're right, about the dancing," she added with reluctance. "I used to copy ballerinas. From movies, I mean." She couldn't look up now, after confessing that last bit.

Fox smiled wide. "I was hoping you'd come around. Now, for the next three weeks, I'm going to be instructing you on a number of different dances. Agreed?"

Instead of giving a direct answer, Lydia mumbled at the floor in front of her boots. Seeing the boots reminded her, though --

"And thanks for the clothes, too," she said. With a smirk, she went on, "It's a wide selection you provided me with."

"I told David you'd be impressed," Fox told her. "He's charming and intelligent, but he doesn't know girls like I do."

Right then, Lydia had never felt so young. Her entire life, she'd been older than her age, by force or by choice. In point of fact, it felt nice to be considered a teenager, allowed to be a kid for once. She could easily see a great relationship between her and Fox. Sort of like sisters.

"What's that look about?" Fox said now, laughing.

She hadn't realized she'd been staring so intently. Embarrassed, Lydia offered a sheepish grin. "Just thinking how much like a big sister you are, is all," she answered honestly.

For a moment, Fox looked to be in total shock. She recovered well, though, shaking her head. "Well, then, if I'm your big sister, then I think it's time for you to meet your nephew."

"Alexander?"

"Yes. Brooklyn told you about him?"

"He's six now, right?"

"Right. Now come with me."

- - -

Brooklyn wasn't sure what to think anymore. Judging by Lydia's explosion, it was probably a bad idea to follow her. This reasoning was the only thing keeping him where he was. After a few minutes of indecisive thought, he turned his attention to her abandoned sketchbook across from him. He was actually surprised at what he saw.

There wasn't much shading beyond the soles of his feet (a part of himself he'd never seen before, himself), but the rest of him, the table, and some of the wall was sketched. On the top right corner of the page, there was a speech bubble and the words "You wish you were this cool" in it. It looked like she had written several different phrases and erased them, before adding this one.

And. . .well, what do you know? He _did_ look pretty cool. He hadn't thought his pose was quite that awesome when he took a seat, but apparently Lydia had noticed.

All at once his sight seemed to blank out, repeating that last thought in his mind. Lydia had noticed. . .that he looked cool? An odd fluttering feeling started in his chest, which he both recognized as and denied could be -- could be --

Impossible, he told himself. He shook his head. It would be far too ironic, if it was -- But it wasn't. He was sure of it. He just kind of liked her, because she was fun and interesting and _jalapena_ how she looked like that female he'd once loved. It was latent feelings telling him so, because he hadn't quite gotten over that love just yet. They looked alike (race notwithstanding) and that was that.

And it just might have something to do with her size, too. Poor Lydia, he laughed silently. She may detest being so short, even as she exploited that fact, but it still had its effects. He's nearly constantly plagued with the urge to hug her or carry her around, all thanks to some overpowering, protective instinct in him. She reminded him so much of a kid -- a pre-teen, even. She was cute and small. . .and she'd probably fit perfectly on his shoulders.

He shook his head. This thinking was ridiculous.

"You're the one staying behind today?" Xanatos' voice cut into his thoughts.

He glanced up sharply, noticing that the man was wearing a gi. "Yeah. Lydia was pretty bummed," he explained, "and we figured I might be able to cheer her up."

"Because you're closest to her," David replied smartly.

For some reason, Brooklyn didn't feel comfortable replying to that. Instead, he said, "What are you up here for?"

"Invitations and notifications," David answered. "For Halloween."

"Like the year before?"

"Exactly. Can we expect to see you there?"

Brooklyn gave him a confused look. "What are you after?" he asked bluntly.

David only looked mildly surprised in return. He knew, after all, that Brooklyn was usually the quickest to catch on. He spread his hands, saying, "Just a few particular party guests. We've invited Lydia, too, if you're wondering."

Brooklyn didn't quite like that little knowing gleam in Xanatos' eye. "Okay," he admitted, "so the question was in my mind. But the bigger question is: why are you so insistent?" Technically the man hadn't exactly demanded anything, but Brooklyn knew the way he acted well enough to know when David was offering Plan A before forcing Plan B into action.

"Means to an end," Xanatos answered. "This is going to be a dance party, specifically. So if you're going to attend, we need to know sooner rather than later."

Brooklyn could hardly believe what he'd heard. "Gargoyles don't really _dance_," he pointed out.

"We're also making it a masquerade theme," Xanatos continued, as though he hadn't heard him. "You can wear whatever century clothing you like, as long as it's of high quality. We can have tuxes tailored for a gargoyle's needs."

"Are you gonna pressure us into this?" Brooklyn asked, referring to the whole clan.

"Fox is going to give Lydia dance lessons."

That caught his attention harder than anything else -- because of how Xanatos had just used Lydia, as though she were some kind of reward. _Do this, and you'll get her,_ for example.

"That's supposed to win me over?" was his response.

"She'll miss you if you're not there -- and she'll still be under house arrest here, too." Xanatos looked so smug, Brooklyn had the sudden urge to scrape his face off with his talons. "Don't you think it'd bother her, if she's stuck here all alone in a party with masked strangers and you're off on Main Street somewhere?"

"To be straight, I think I know her better than you do," Brooklyn snapped. "And I've been thinking of attending since before you strutted up here to ask. The rest is none of your business."

Xanatos lifted his hands in surrender. "Good enough. Fox and I are going to bed in a hour, so be sure to pass on the invitation to the rest of the clan."

"Should I include the guilt trip while I'm at it?"

At that, Xanatos gave a laugh, though he moved on without a word, climbing the stairs.

Brooklyn had the urge to follow the man and eavesdrop. After all, Xanatos had a habit of conversing new developments with Owen every time one popped up, and it was a useful way of getting new information. Granted there was little Xanatos did anymore that he didn't share with the clan in time -- well, he shared when it had to do _with_ the clan. Still, Brooklyn's instincts were strong on these matters, hard to deny, harder still to ignore.

But it was a _party_, he reminded himself. What would Xanatos discuss with Owen? That they could start ordering the gargoyle-tailored tuxes? Hell, knowing Xanatos, they were already made, just waiting to be requested.

He was reminded about Lydia being thrown into this. She was going to be given dance lessons? From Fox? As in, starting _now?_

The next question in his mind disturbed him even as it plagued him: Which room would she be in? Luckily, that was easy to answer. He headed down to the sparring room, knowing it was often multitasked as other rooms when the need arises.

He reached it only to find it was empty. He pouted. Then where could Lydia be?

He told himself he didn't care where Lydia was, so much as who she was with and why. After all, he would be a horrible protector if he didn't know these things. Especially about a girl he had, more or less, claimed as his sole charge -- if only mentally. She was _his_ to protect, the rest of the clan be damned. It was the same as Goliath with Elisa.

He shook his head sharply. Comparing he and Lydia to Goliath and Elisa would never end well, knowing the latter two's relationship. It would be for the best if he would just _stop doing that._

Still, it didn't help at all that he didn't know where she was. Upstairs, downstairs, on the same level? She would be with Fox; he knew that much. Where would Fox take her? To do what? Was there another room they could use as a practice room, for dancing?

He knew the castle inside and out, he reminded himself; not the Eerie Building. In a building with thousands of rooms, how would he find one (abnormally small) human?


	9. Brief Freedom

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Nine_

Lydia glanced up at the sound of a door opening. She wasn't surprised to see Brooklyn walk in. It was close to morning -- and had been the routine the past two weeks. She would practice dancing, with Fox instructing from the moment she woke until a few hours before she would go to bed. Fox would never stay longer than an hour, two at the most.

And Brooklyn would show up at half an hour or so until dawn, to see how she was progressing and say good night.

She waved three fingers at him, then went to turn off the stereo. Today's music set was a Korn CD, two Billy Idols, and a dance mix. Perfect for keeping her at high-energy.

"How's it going?" Brooklyn asked.

She knew he meant the lessons. "Damn good," she answered with a smile. She loved to move, after all; dancing was a great outlet. Even if it did leave her exhausted by the end.

"Has everyone agreed yet?" she said.

He nodded. "Well, I doubt Hudson would've refused. But yeah. Xanatos got Elisa to agree to come, and she got Goliath to agree. Those two were the last."

"I figured it would happen that way," she smiled.

"What do you mean?"

"Just the whole Goliath-Elisa thing. You rarely find one without the other." She brushed her hair back from her forehead.

He seemed to be thinking, quietly examining her.

"What?" she asked, brows raising.

"You don't look too happy," he pointed out.

She shrugged. "Dancing is fun and all, but it's only a mild freedom." She sighed. "What I wouldn't give to have a day to myself. Or night, for that matter," she added with a laugh.

He looked like he wanted to say something, then bit it back. "Meet me at dusk. I have an idea."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Why, Brooklyn, you're not thinking of busting me out of here?"

He jerked, surprised. "Why would you think that?"

"Because it's a deliciously bad idea," she explained. "Elisa wouldn't approve, that's for sure."

He returned that skeptical gaze. "You say that like _you've_ been thinking about it."

"Just plans, so far," she admitted. "Now you need to skidaddle before you turn into a doorway statue." She shooed her hands at him.

He relented, though not without reluctance. "Dusk," he repeated.

"I got it," she all but whined.

The next evening, Fox looked surprised to find her outside, just hanging out with Brooklyn on the wall.

"I thought you would be in the dance room," she said, the words suspiciously close to a reprimand.

Lydia shrugged. "Needed a break. A night to myself. Why, is there a problem with this?"

"No," Fox agreed with ease. "In which case, tomorrow?"

"We'll see," Lydia half-promised.

Fox seemed perplexed, but didn't press the issue. Once she was out of earshot, Lydia continued with the conversation she'd been having.

"But don't you get tired of it?" she asked. "Night after night, the same bullshit?"

If anything, Brooklyn seemed surprised at her curse, with how easily she said it. He shook himself out of it. "It's not 'bullshit.' We're protecting people, keeping them out of danger, returning stolen property, sometimes even more. I saved _you_. What d'you suppose would've happened to you that day, if I had chosen to take a day off?"

"It wouldn't have been your responsibility," she countered. "But I guess I wouldn't be here now. I'd still be in my apartment, still have my job." She laced those words with disdain.

He didn't look happy. "You have _this_," he said, gesturing wide, as if to count the entire castle as something of hers. "But I was talking about what those men might have done to you." He gave a shudder, shaking his head.

Well, yes, clearly, that was a possibility. Then again, Brooklyn had never seen her in action. Even if she ended up with more than a cut to the neck (which had long since healed), she had no doubt she would've been able to escape.

She said, "You're just examining the worst-case scenario. I was thinking of best-case."

"Which would be. . ?"

She clicked her tongue as she thought. "Honestly, Brooklyn, you've never seen me in action. You don't know how wily I can be."

"I saw that one night when you flipped around on the grass," he shot back.

"Oh, that?" She laughed. "I was trying to do a specific something. Failed, too." She shook her head, amused with herself.

"Which was. . ?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Can't explain. It's too weird in my head." She tapped her temple for effect. Then she glanced off the wall, at the glittering lights of the city. She wondered if her expression was wistful. It would fit her longing. How she wished she could just leap off and go wherever she wanted. . .

After another moment, Brooklyn whined, "Alright, fine. Stop making that face."

"What face?" Her innocent expression matched her surprise. She'd been making a face after all?

"Come on," he gestured. He squat, waiting.

She raised a brow but didn't argue. "Elisa's gonna slaughter you when she finds out you did this for me." She climbed onto his back.

"My problem," he shrugged, then leapt.

In the back of her mind, she could hear sirens going off; her imagination reminding her what a bad idea this was. Then again, she so loved the bad ideas. . .

"Any particular place you want to go?" he asked.

She was grinning already. "Definitely." She pointed downwards. "Head for that roof, would you?"

As he dove that way, he said, "Why that roof?"

"I have a course there."

"_Course_?" he echoed with heavy emphasis.

"You'll see," she replied in sing-song.

He seemed to shrug it off. He circled the roof as he drifted downward, landing softly. She hopped off him, stretched her arms above her head. He sent her a curious look, but she wasn't paying attention to him anymore. Her mind was sifting through file after file, building an effective course from here on out.

"This is gonna be _fun,_" she said absently. Then she took off, without warning him. She heard him trail behind her, almost laughing because she knew he'd be faster than her if he tried.

Ahead of her was the edge of the building. She jumped off it, making the next with ease. The very act of jumping made Brooklyn yell out a warning; she figured he was surprised to find she made the jump. The roof she was now on was littered with climbable items, divable openings, and jumpable hurdles. She used them with more flair than usual, since this run was just for fun.

He was keeping up. "What are you, a free runner?" he asked at one point.

She laughed. "On most days," she answered. The edge of the building was nearing, and the following roof was a story higher. She leapt off and landed on a window sill, barely clinging to it with fingers and toes. Still, she could stand and reach the roof. When she went to pull herself up, he did it for her, frown in place.

"You could have fallen," he scolded her.

"Didn't," she countered, taking off again. Her breath was coming fast now, but controlled. The adrenaline in her was strong, giving her a lovely feeling inside.

Between this and the next roof was a set of fire escapes. She jumped from one railing to the other, to the opposite roof in one go. No worries. She had to give credit to her shoes, though; these boots were great at gripping. She wondered if they'd been chosen for her on purpose, knowing what she'd want to be doing.

"Lydia!"

She glanced over her shoulder, met a disapproving look on his face. "Sourpuss," she chided.

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her dead. Her feet flew from under her and she landed on her back. Her shoulder ached from the sudden stop.

She glared at him. "Ow."

He matched it. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? You're a human!"

She blew a raspberry, still catching her breath. "Such faith you have in me."

"One slip up, doing stuff like this, and you're dead!"

"Lord almighty, not _that_!" she said with a fake gasp. His glare intensified. She rolled her eyes and sat up. "I've been doing this for years," she told him. "I haven't killed myself yet."

"_One_ slip up," he repeated.

"I'm under a hundred pounds," she reminded him. "My terminal velocity is far less than the average person's. Do you see where I'm going with this? I have a better chance of surviving a fall than most humans." She stood up and dusted off her hands and rear.

"And that's worth the risk?" he asked, dumbfounded.

She glared. "Surviving is," she told him. "What, you think I started this free running business because it seemed like such a _good_ idea?" She scoffed. "I told you I was hounded throughout my school years. Where do you think I ran to, to keep a distance?"

He was silent for a moment. "Practice doesn't always make perfect."

"You worry too much," she snapped. Then she glanced around, spotted an antenna. She crossed over to it and, without flinching, cut her forearm on the sharp corner. Blood welled up.

"Lydia!" he all but barked, grabbing the arm. He stared at the wound as it began bleeding. "What were you thinking?!"

"I was thinking," she replied calmly, "that yes, I'm breakable. But I'm not fragile. There's a difference." She yanked her arm back. It was starting to sting, that cut. "You don't seem to get that. Just because I don't turn to stone all day and wake up without a scratch doesn't mean I'll die if I _do_ get one."

"It's reckless, what you just did," he snarled.

"Less reckless than what _you_ do on a nightly basis," she pointed out. She pinned him with a confused look. "Why are you being so protective of me?"

He looked chagrined, then chose to glance at other things: a satellite dish, a door, a far-off skyscraper. "Is it wrong to worry about you?" he shot back.

"In this case, yes." He looked at her sharply. "I know what I'm doing," she told him. "I told you I had a course here. I can go across another ten buildings before I have to start improvising."

"In which direction?" he asked, though his tone suggested he didn't care.

"Every direction." At his suspicious look, she sighed. "Fine. You're not gonna let me have any more fun tonight, are you? Then take me back. At least in the castle I have a padded room to play in," she added harshly, dripping with sarcasm.

He scowled -- which, she had to admit, was more than frightening on a face like his. Or it would be, she supposed, to someone unused to what he looked like. She just glared back, eyes narrowed. After a few seconds of staredown, the wind blew her hair into her eyes and she brushed it back.

Then he grabbed her wrists, yanking her onto his back, and took off with a grumble she couldn't decipher. She held on only because it was the smart thing to do, considering mutiny every time they came close enough to a building for her to make the jump.

All too soon, she was back at house arrest. She didn't feel like gracing him with any good nights, so she walked off without a word.

"From one fucking cage to another," she hissed to herself. She didn't normally swear viciously, but then again, she _was_ a Brooklyn baby. She had the attitude, even if she tried to keep it under wraps most of the time. At least it was getting to the point where the accent rarely showed up.

She hated cages with a passion that often stunned her. Oftentimes it felt out of place; she could hardly stand seeing birds in cages, regardless of how grand the cage was or how spectacular the bird was. It confused her, though she eventually came to the conclusion that it was a past life thing. But that brought up another question: who was she in her past life? Or what? And why would that be connected to a hatred of cages?

And why did she see the largest building in Manhattan as a cage?


	10. Masquerade

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Ten_

She never really got over their last argument, her and Brooklyn.

Lydia waited impatiently for Fox to appear. The older woman had gone to retrieve a dress she'd ordered specifically for her. It was Halloween, the day of the party. Her hair was styled, her face was painted, and she was wearing a pair of white tights and pristine heels. Two-inch heels, she figured, glancing at them again.

She had enough grace and control to keep on them all night -- so long as she remained focused. _The most uncoordinated coordinated person in the world,_ she thought ironically. When she focused, she could do amazing things -- like free running across a dozen buildings without stumbling. But once she stopped focusing, she was as good as best friends with the floor.

Perfection through necessity. That was what gave her enough balance to sprint across a three-inch wide beam without wobbling. Years of practice, out of a need to evade. Her pursuers never followed after her when she pulled stunts like that.

So, all things considered, she should be alright for the rest of the night. She glanced into the mirror she was standing before, frowning. Fox had told her, in so many words, that the dress wasn't compatible with even a strapless bra. That meant it had to be backless, and, most likely, halter-topped. It was the only conclusion she could come to. There she stood, bare-chested before a mirror, when the door opened.

It wasn't Fox, it was Elisa. She glanced away when she noticed the topless Lydia, but she was carrying a box. A delivery. Rectangular and flat, it was clearly meant to hold some kind of garment.

"Fox asked me to deliver this to you," she explained, coming closer without resting her eyes anywhere inappropriate.

"My dress?" Lydia asked without any real curiosity.

"Mm-hmm." She handed it over.

Lydia looked the elder woman up and down. She was dressed like a devil, in a tight red dress that fanned out at the hips, split down the front to reveal her legs and stilettos. She wore a thin red mask, little red horns that clipped into her hair, held back in a ponytail. She carried a red trident and, when she turned, had a tiny pair of red bat wings clipped to the straps of her dress. They almost flapped as she moved.

"You look devilish," Lydia joked.

Elisa grinned. "Now let's get you in that dress. Fox suggested you might need help."

"Alrighty." Lydia opened it, and, at first, was confused. It looked like the dress was nothing but layers of thin satin, bursting out of the box once it'd been opened. For one wild moment, she thought she was going to be wearing a tutu, remembering how she mentioned once that she'd watched ballerinas.

Then she pulled it out. Held up, she found the neck, which fit with her idea of a backless halter-dress. She couldn't quite envision how it would look yet, so she put it on. Elisa hooked the neck closed, then the low back. Now that they could see it clearly. . .

"Wow," Elisa breathed. "You look adorable, _and_ gorgeous."

Lydia had to tilt her head at the visage. Now she understood why Fox had insisted on turning her short-at-the-back, long-at-the-front hair into a series of tight curls. Altogether, she looked like a slightly-older Shirley Temple with black hair instead of red.

The dress fit tightly to her top, fanning out worse than Elisa's dress, starting just below her breasts. It became yards of delicate fabric, falling only inches down her thighs but more than making up for the lack of length with width. She twisted and turned in the mirror, watching with an odd fascination as it moved, slow and graceful.

"Whoa," she said. She spread her arms wide and spun in a slow circle, watching. Her back was bare, as she'd known, but somehow seeing it felt like indecent exposure.

When she glanced over at Elisa, the taller beauty had a pitying look.

"What?" Lydia wondered.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you."

Lydia narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "Okay, I'll bite. Why?"

"Because you're too cute." Elisa cupped her cheek. "You're going to stun everyone."

Lydia pouted. "Does that mean I have to thank Fox for all her hard work?"

Elisa laughed. "Yes, I imagine that's a good idea. Now come on. The guests have already started arriving." She offered her arm. But she'd only taken a step before she sighed. "Now I feel like a real devil, escorting an angel to her doom."

"A ballroom full of gargoyles? Yeah, sounds kinda hellish." She tossed Elisa a smirk.

"No smirking," Elisa chided. "Angels don't smirk. Soft smiles -- there we go," she approved as Lydia did as commanded. "Like I said, too cute. Should I give you a gun? You might need it."

"I think I'll be safe with six gargoyles in the room with me. Or -- is Hudson coming? I just realized no one said anything about him."

"No, he's not one for festivities. Bronx is sticking with him, though, so he's not alone."

"Those two are inseparable," Lydia laughed. They were descending the stairs, heading for the elevators, because this was the quickest way.

"Aren't you worried about tripping? I've never seen you in heels before."

"No. And I should be asking _you_ that. Stilettos? Like you _need_ to be taller?"

Elisa laughed. "It fit the costume." She glanced down as she walked, twisting her mouth at the stilettos, held on with dozens of straps, each one so thin they threatened to break with each step. "It was annoying trying to get my feet in them without a map," she added, thoughtful.

Lydia giggled. "I can see that being a problem."

The elevator ride was short, just five levels down, and then they were walking through the threshold. Eyes and heads turned when they entered, and Lydia picked out Goliath immediately. She counted heads as she wove through the crowd with Elisa, estimating that twenty humans were here. She couldn't see any other gargoyles -- yet.

Not surprisingly, Elisa went straight to Goliath and curtsied. Lydia followed suit, and Goliath bowed. It wasn't until then that she noticed she couldn't see his wings. He was wearing a black tux, the jacket open to show the white undershirt.

"Where. . ?" she wondered, pointing.

He made a sound of discomfort. "Puck called it a _glamour_ spell. He's made our wings invisible."

"Our? So everyone else is here? Besides Hudson, I mean."

"They're around."

"How are you wearing a shirt and jacket with your wings still there?"

"The backs are open. Part of the glamour is that he made it look like they aren't."

"Lydia!" a familiar voice cooed.

She turned to see Angela approaching, and did a double-take. She was wearing a tight-fitting black dress, accented with slashes down both sides, showing white fabric underneath, almost down to the floor, thing straps barely hanging onto her shoulders. Her hair was up in a controlled pile atop her head, except for two strands which hung down in slight waves to rest on her chest. Her tail was barely visible under the dress. And she wore a white mask, befitting the masquerade theme, which contrasted heavily and made her eyes that much more noticeable.

Broadway was with her, wearing a tux over his bulging waistline. He looked much less grandeur, but crossed the floor with almost as much grace. His tux was the same as Goliath's, except that his jacket was a dark blue.

"Angela," she said with a measure of awe. "Wow. You look more stunning than a human could be."

"I told her that," Broadway agreed.

"Of course _you_ would think so," Angela said to him, but it was more a tease than a disagreement. "And you," she said as she looked Lydia over.

"Adorable, right?" Elisa asked.

Angela nodded. "The cutest human I've ever seen."

"Someone's gonna try to kidnap her, I'll bet my paycheck on it."

"Stop it, both of you," Lydia muttered, hiding her face in her hands as her cheeks burned.

"Where's your mask?" she heard Fox ask.

She glanced up, confused. "Was there one in the box?"

Fox was unhappy. "Yes, there was."

She looked halfway like a jester, wearing a dress that left one arm covered, one not, the tight knee-length skirt showing fishnets underneath. It was sectioned in large diamonds, no more than six on the front, half white, half a blue that matched her tattoo. And her mask covering the right side of her face, plain white with a mimicked fox tattoo on it.

She planted her hands on her hips. "Well, it's too late now. You're going to be the only human guest without a mask." She sighed.

Lydia smirked. "As if you're really put off by a missing mask. I suppose I should just say it -- thanks for the dress. And everything else, for that matter."

The visible half of Fox's face smiled. "You're welcome. And thank _you_ for not complaining this time."

"Give me a while to work up to it," Lydia retorted, rolling her eyes.

"Work up to what?

_That_ voice she'd recognize anywhere, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Brooklyn reaching them. Lex was behind him, standing erect. They were both in tuxes as well, and she noticed the theme now: Brooklyn's jacket was a dark burgundy, Lex's a forest green. Fox had undoubtedly chosen to keep the jackets' colors near the gargoyles' skin tones.

"Heya, guys," she greeted.

Brooklyn stopped short, and a change came over his eyes. "Lydia?" he wondered aloud.

She gave a strangled laugh. "Didn't recognize me?" she guessed.

"Not from the back. Wow, you look different," he appraised.

She rolled her eyes again. "Just say it. Everyone else has."

"You look _really_ cute," Lex said, and she grinned at him.

"And you look quite dashing. That color works on you."

He laughed.

"Quit it, Lex," she heard Brooklyn mutter, clearly trying to keep it inaudible to humans.

She pretended not to hear, glancing around. "Shouldn't there be a refreshment table somewhere?"

Fox led her there while the others talked briefly and then split. She surveyed a ten-foot by four-foot buffet of sorts. Nothing here was meant to be a meal, but the selection of tiny, tooth-picked meats, cheeses, and vegetables as good as equaled one. There were also three separate punch bowls and a row of champagne. Various kinds of chips, rolls, and crackers were spread in between circles of shrimp. Everything was labeled, as well.

"Wow," she said with a small amount of wonder. "I've never actually seen a buffet table like this before."

"Not even at a school dance?"

Lydia raised a brow at her. "Who are you talking to, again? I never went to any dances -- or any social gathering whatsoever. Never been invited," she explained as Fox's one eye narrowed in confusion.

Fox glanced away then, eye caught by someone else, and smiled. "There's my husband. You can handle yourself, can't you?"

"Given the right incentive, yes."

Fox chuckled as she walked away.

She spent a while surveying the foods before her attention was caught by a stranger. They fell into conversation, and she never noticed the piercing gaze following her movements, keeping an eye on her.


	11. Dancing With A Gargoyle

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Eleven_

Lydia spent most of her time by that table, occasionally snacking on crackers or sipping glasses of punch. A few strangers chatted with her, seemingly enchanted by her adorable visage. She allowed herself a moment of pride; she'd never seen herself as outwardly _attractive_ before. Cute, yes -- but then, what else could a woman her size be seen as? She'd never be tall and beautiful like Elisa, or fit and graceful and full of confidence like Fox. Well, she'd take what she could get.

She was honestly surprised, though, when she was invited by a complete stranger to dance. She agreed, since she'd been wanting to, and had confidence in her weeks of training -- _practicing,_ her mind corrected. _You don't 'train' to dance. You practice._

She rolled her eyes mentally at her unconscious phrasing, and then at her mental debates. That couldn't be a good sign.

Her dancing partner, a man dressed as Count Dracula, wasn't nearly as graceful a dancer as she was. He almost tripped her, then hurried to apologize. Before she could say a word, he rushed away, embarrassed. She stood for a long moment on the dance floor, staring after her lost dancing partner, before an amused voice broke though.

"Left you alone, did he? I could drop him off the building, if you're offended."

He'd been watching her since he first saw her, keeping an eye on her since Lex was being unkind with the _she's gonna get kidnapped_ jokes. It rose the protectiveness in him, and so he'd been keeping tabs on her. Many humans wanted the chance to talk to a gargoyle, but luckily Brooklyn was intimidating in his alien appearance, second only to Goliath's massive size. Not many humans were willing to start a conversation with him, which was just fine at a time like this.

After all, he had something he had to look after.

She turned a smile on Brooklyn -- a smile, not a smirk, because angels didn't smirk. "Nah, but thanks for offering. Is the offer good for later, though?"

He shrugged. "As long as the crime is befitting the punishment."

She didn't like talks of crimes and punishments. It reminded her that while she'd done no actual crime, she still had a court date to attend.

"On another subject completely," he went on while she hesitated, "want to finish the dance with a gargoyle?"

"Why, is Lex around?" she joked, knowing it was his sore spot.

He growled. Of course she would poke at his weak point like that. Though it was unfound, jealousy soared up, and he had to clench his fist to keep a metaphorical grip on self-control. "No. You'll just have to settle for the red one." He offered his hands.

She walked into the embrace, letting him whirl her around. The most amusing part wasn't that a six-foot-but-hunched red gargoyle with a beaklike face was dancing with possibly the cutest human girl at the party, but the way the other dancers were staring. Many of them stumbled, in shock, while a few stopped dead where they were.

"Talk about stopping a procession dead in its tracks," she muttered.

Brooklyn chuckled. "Turns out a single gargoyle couldn't clear a room -- but a gargoyle dancing with a human could." He was certainly surprised himself -- that she was letting him hold her. Granted, it was only proper form for the dance, but he'd had the feeling she would reject him. After all, the last time they'd talked, she'd been very angry with him. At least her spirits had raised.

She could see how this amused him. "It's even more amazing that the gargoyle hasn't tripped the human yet with the way you walk, those knees sticking out."

He caught her sly look and then rose to his full height. "It's just a little uncomfortable this way," he explained when she gave him a _now why don't you stand up straight all the time?_ look. After a few moments, he sank back down to usual pose.

She nodded, understanding. "Makes sense."

"Wait -- you understand?" He was confused. Most humans didn't get it, and gargoyles rarely analyzed it. It was just common nature for them.

"Yep. Oh, I have a fascination with biology, muscle structure and the like," she told him. "It makes sense for you to walk the way you do; your body structure kinda demands it."

He picked up on the excitement she tried to hide in her tone. "You've thought about this pretty hard, haven't you?" he asked, suspicious.

As the song ended, he was hyperaware of his hand on her waist and how she allowed it. Her faint smile remained, and for a moment, they didn't move. Then they went to the refreshment table again. She talked as they went.

"Well, yeah. I've dissected human cadavers before on the quest of knowledge. You wouldn't believe how amazing it is, seeing the innards of a person and knowing you look just the same on the inside. And then I've --"

He interrupted her. "That doesn't sound like normal curriculum for high school."

"It's not. I did it for independent study, then wrote a paper about the experience, and what I'd learned. I got a whole credit for the work total." She smiled at the memory. "But that's not where I was going. As I said, I've also dissected animals, but that _was_ part of the curriculum. Starfish, then sharks, frogs, a cat, a piglet, an owl, a bat, and a few others I did in my backyard without the school's knowledge." She chuckled. "I bet I could've gotten another credit if they'd have approved it all."

He skewered her with a look. "You've never sounded more strange than you do now."

She giggled reflexively, embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess I sound a little nuts. I just get a little overboard when I think about biology and such." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

"Are you dissecting me in your head?" he half-teased. The idea scared him a little.

She blushed furiously. "Only a little," she admitted. "And it's not so much dissecting as it is _analyzing._ I told you, muscle structure fascinates me. And I've been on your back before so I _know_ how those muscles work."

He blinked, unsure what to say. The conversation bothered him in an odd way. "And how do they work?" he wondered, almost hitting himself for asking the question.

Her eyes brightened, and then she shook her head. "Oh, I could go in-depth about it. But I don't wanna talk about it in a room full of others and I'm sure you don't want that, either." She winked. "Ask me again when we're alone and I'll fill you in."

Now he was surprised. He hadn't really thought she'd forgiven him for being overprotective yet, and now she was as good as saying she had.

"So if we're going to be alone later," he said slowly, "that means you've forgiven me?"

Her face hardened. "I suppose I'll have to eventually. It's not like I don't understand -- it's just a little infuriating."

"Why?"

"Because, suddenly, you became a traitor to the cause." Though her voice was slightly teasing, her face showed no amusement.

"What cause?" he wondered aloud, confused.

She glared. "My freedom, silly man. I thought you were on my side, until then."

He frowned, even as his insides were reeling at the fact she'd called him a silly _man._ It was quite a distinction to make, and the implications weren't lost on him.

"I have to pick sides now?" he finally replied.

"Ya know what, go somewhere else." She scoffed. "You're pissing me off."

Now he glowered. "How? I asked a question!"

"Don't try to understand the female psyche," she advised.

"Am I going to be forgiven eventually?"

"We'll see. Now stop pressing your luck. I want to be alone."

With a glare at her hard face, he walked past her, heading for where Lex was talking animatedly with two men and a woman. He joined the group with a welcome from Lex, who went right back to his story.

"And I figured, a simulator worked in telling me what to do. I already had the knowledge, now I just needed practice. And flying helicopters isn't so hard, once you know what everything does. . ."

The humans were stunned, listening to him. Brooklyn rolled his eyes. Of course Lex would bring up that story, the one humans would have the most difficulty believing: a gargoyle flying a helicopter. It went against what they knew of gargoyle kind for them to use any means of travel other than their wings.

He looked back at the table, saw Lydia glaring at the crackers and cheese she was snacking on. After a few moments of unheard conversation, a man approached her, tentative. He touched her arm and a wave of possessiveness coursed through Brooklyn, though he held himself where he was. It wasn't easy -- his mind was calculating how long it would take to dash over there, grab the man, and throw him off the balcony on the other side of the room.

"Do you fly helicopters too?"

He glanced up sharply, realizing that he'd been staring at Lydia. He almost missed the question, then shook his head. "No, that's just Lex the genius, here," he said, gesturing the smaller gargoyle.

Lex tossed him a smirk. "As if you're not a genius in your own rights."

Brooklyn shrugged, allowing it.

"What does that mean?" the woman asked, eying him in confusion.

"I'm a strategist," he explained.

"And a damn good one," Lex approved.

Brooklyn didn't like talking about his mind's inner workings, so it was a reprieve when Elisa and Goliath reached them.

"Is this where the party is?" she teased.

The conversation continued with much less comfortable humans, now that Goliath had joined in. But they relaxed after a short while, as Goliath displayed his intelligence and refinement, two things unexpected in general for a gargoyle to have.

Though Brooklyn kept a sharp eye on Lydia and her conversation with the boy, he could only guess at the subject. He analyzed what he could see: Lydia's expression, as it went from mild surprise, to confusion, to suspicion, to anger. They seemed to be arguing for a short time, during which time he could hardly stand to hold himself still. He was waiting (futilely, in all likelihood) for her to ask for help. He was pretty sure she could take care of herself, and she was also angry with him right then.

It was probably best not to poke a hornet's nest when it was already riled up.

Her expression changed to shock, utter disbelief, and then fury. She spoke quickly to the man.

Brooklyn shifted his attention to other human, trying to understand what was going on from a distance -- and while migrating humans kept shuffling into his line of sight. The man was dressed as Dracula , probably the same one she'd danced with earlier. He seemed to be trying to reason with her, gesturing with his hands in apology.

Hadn't he almost thrown her to the floor? Is that why he was apologizing?

Brooklyn narrowed his eyes in confusion and anxiety. What were they saying to make Lydia's face take on such rage?

And then Elisa stole a glance at Lydia and said, "Hey, what's Lydia up to?"

It was like an invitation, and he obeyed it, heading for the duo.


	12. Three Hundred Seventy Two

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Twelve_

As Brooklyn approached, he could make out what they were saying. It was a relief to finally know the subject.

". . .a crush?" Lydia said, stunned. "Really. Imagine my surprise."

"I'm serious," the man returned sharply. "I've always. . .really been in love with you."

Brooklyn felt, more than heard, the growl in his throat. His dislike of the man was growing increasingly large, and now he wasn't so happy to know the subject. In his mind, this unknown human was suddenly a rival for the affections of the girl he considered his charge. For a while, she'd been a secret he could covet, something he could obsess over if he wanted to, because she was his in that sense.

She wasn't that secret anymore, but the obsessive protectiveness he had for her hadn't changed. In actuality, it had grown stronger. He wanted nothing more than her safety, and if this man was disturbing her, then that was a violation. He began listing ways of getting them apart in his head, one of which was backhanding the man. It wouldn't _kill_ him. . .

A little more violent than his usual thoughts. . . It left him unsettled, but not enough to stop the train of thought from being satisfying.

Lydia scoffed. But before Brooklyn was quite near enough to say anything, she burst out, "That's a load of bullshit, and you know it!"

Silence dropped through the area around her as though someone had cut a cord. Eyes turned towards her, and even Brooklyn slowed his walk.

The man glanced around uncertainly, noticing the attention. Lowering his voice, he said, "I don't think we should be talking this loud."

"Oh, let them hear," she snapped back. "I don't mind. After all, _I'm_ not the one with something to hide."

"I'm not hiding anything," he hissed.

She laughed outright. "Really. Then why did you sneak up on me, huh?"

"I was. . .admiring you," the man confessed. It made Brooklyn growl softly once more, though he was more interested in what was going on to interrupt. "I told you, I'm in love with you."

Lydia abruptly threw up her hand, palm facing the man, fingers spread wide. "I think it's time I laid out the numbers for you, bully."

"I'm _not_ a bully!" he bit out.

But she was going on, overriding him. "Three broken legs, seven fractures," she began, taking a step back from him. "Seven broken ribs, eleven fractures. One broken arm, two fractures. One broken collarbone. One cracked pelvis – which, by the way, is a brand of pain you _never_ want to feel twice. Three fractured vertebrae." The man tried to interrupt, ignored completely as she went on. "Four torn ligaments, six sprains, one fractured cheek bone," her voice was growing louder, "internal bleeding, one removed appendix, and _three-hundred seventy-two stitches._ Total."

The silence, Brooklyn noted, had spread as far as the room. Some people had moved in closer to hear the conversation, not the least of which were Xanatos, Fox and Elisa.

"I did _not_," she continued, "just describe the life of a warrior. I didn't describe training for soldiers. I did _not_ describe some unlucky person's twenty years of life."

"Veronica --" he tried to interrupt.

"In _five years_," she sneered vehemently, "you did all that to _me._ First, second, third, forth, and fifth grade, for _me_, were spent in endless recovery. I didn't enjoy one day of the week, least all of school days, because I knew you would be there. Even when we weren't in the same class, you found me. On the playground, in the lunchroom, before or after school --"

"That's not fair," he finally managed.

"Then what is?" she all but yelled. "Tell me, go on, Matt. Tell me again that you did it all _out of love._ Tell me you caused five years of Hell because you had a _crush_ on me." She grinned, though it was on the maniacal side. "Tell me that when you saw all the other kids throwing rocks and debris at me, you picked up a rock bigger than your fist and struck me in the head with it, because you _loved_ me."

Matt was looking away, staring intently at the white-clothed table beside them. He didn't answer.

For a long moment there was no noise whatsoever. Eyes kept moving between Lydia and Matt, waiting for one more word. It was a game of sorts, wondering who would break the silence first.

Finally, Lydia continued, though she was much quieter now. "You gave me forty-two scars, Matt. Don't you think you've done enough?" With a sigh, she took another step back. "You shouldn't have said anything to me."

"I didn't," he started, before she could turn away. "I didn't. . .think you were having such a hard time. I saw you excelling in school, getting straight A's – I thought I wasn't causing you any trouble."

"I excelled in school," she snapped, "because it was the only way I could see myself escaping _you_. I did everything I could to get away from _you_."

Brooklyn decided now would be a good time to break it up. He wove through the crowd, for a moment creating the only sound other than breathing. "Lydia," he said, once he was part of the innermost ring.

She looked over her shoulder to see him, giving him a reassuring "I'm okay" kind of smile. Then she threw one more look at Matt before turning away fully, intent on walking away, letting the event die.

And then, with a righteous tone, Matt blurted, "If that's the case, then I motivated you through school. You should be _thanking_ me!"

Lydia stopped short, and all around, murmurs broke out. Nearest him, Brooklyn heard Elisa say, "He didn't just say that."

Fox replied a simple, "I think he did."

Xanatos threw in, "Now would be a great time to shut up."

Brooklyn, himself, wanted to throw that Matt person out of the nearest window. The only thing that stopped him was Lydia's expression, which he could see clearly. Utter disbelief crossed her features before she turned back around, meeting Matt's gaze.

And Matt seemed to realize his mistake. With the air of someone about to panic, he waved his arms in front of him. "Wait, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to --"

"No," Lydia interrupted, lifting a hand for silence. "No, you're completely right."

"He's in trouble," Elisa breathed quietly.

"He's as good as dead," Fox corrected.

"I never thought of it like that," Lydia went on, coming closer to him. Matt wisely stepped back. "On the one hand, you terrorized me. But on the other, it _was_ a kind of motivation." She was nearly within arm's reach now. "So, _Matt_, for 'motivating' me," she grabbed his lapels, "I so completely thank you," she finished, each word punctuated clearly.

In one swift motion, she stood on her toes and kissed him. Shock went through the crowd – rage went through Brooklyn – and Matt's eyes bugged out. Not a second later, he pushed her back, roughly. For a brief instant, a thin string of blood connected their lips, then broke into smaller droplets.

Matt hissed in pain, holding his mouth. With shocked eyes on Lydia, he blurted, "You bit me!"

Carelessly, she strode to the table, daintily lifting a napkin to wipe the blood off her lip. Though Brooklyn had instinctively moved forward at the kiss, he now stood as frozen as everyone else – although his eyes weren't bugged, nor his mouth hanging open as some of the crowds' were.

"You – you bloodied my lip!" Matt snapped, only just noticing. He threw a glare at Lydia.

Lydia, on the other hand, had meanwhile taken a sip of champagne. Now she gave a laugh, amusement in her eyes. Without so much as a glance at him, she said, "When I've given you four hundred stitches, then you can complain about _me_ making _you_ bleed."

This time the scene truly ended, as Lydia – tall glass of champagne in hand – turned from Matt to walk towards a balcony on the far side of the room. She breezed past Brooklyn without a glance, as she had everyone else. Just about everyone watched as she left the room, eyes swinging back to the still-stunned man by the table after a moment, holding his bloody lip.

Brooklyn was the first to move, stalking over to the man. No words could've described the red-hot anger in him then, barely held beneath the surface.

Matt backed up quick, but still managed only one step before Brooklyn had him by his shirtfront. "If you _ever_ see her again," he growled threateningly, "you'll be wishing you hadn't." Then he released the smaller human, whom stumbled back another few steps, before turning to follow after Lydia.

"G. . .gargoyle," he heard Matt breath in shock. In his head, Brooklyn smiled ever so slightly.

Elisa gave a low whistle, setting a clearly disapproving on Matt. Goliath, beside her, had the same expression, though he growled his displeasure rather than whistling it. The last Brooklyn knew about what was happening behind him, he could hear Xanatos speaking, seemingly to the boy.

Ah, but what would he do now, concerning Lydia? She had followed the balcony around a curve, out of sight of anybody who wasn't in the doorway. When he spotted her, she was sitting on the stone wall, head bent, the glass she'd taken with resting beside her – and halfway gone.

He remained where he was, going over what he could do now in his head. One option would be to go and sit beside her, maybe apologize for her hard life. Another thought was to drape one of his wings around her shoulders, knowing it tended to amuse her.

If only that Matt kid hadn't shown up. The night had been going well, in his opinion. They'd danced, which he had found more than a little pleasurable. He didn't think, beforehand, that she would let him touch her waist the way he had to in order to dance. But she also let his hand rest there long after the music stopped. He had thought, for one of the briefest moments, that Lydia had been looking at him with love in her eyes. It made him giddy, hopeful; he quit caring about her being human and he being a gargoyle.

After all, if Elisa and Goliath could love beyond species and appearances, why couldn't he and Lydia do the same?

Almost without realizing it, Brooklyn had descended to a crouch, forgetting the sophisticated front they'd all been putting up for this event. In his most natural pose, he rested there, on his haunches, still debating over what he would say or do – if he would say or do anything at all.

Elisa answered his prayers, touching him on the shoulder so he knew she was there. Then she whispered, so Lydia wouldn't hear, "Don't say anything about it."

He blinked, surprised. Just as quietly, he asked, "Then what should I say?"

"Anything," Elisa told him. "Distract her. Find a way to make her happy, to make her forget." With a playful smirk, she added, "You can do that, can't you?"

He resisted the urge to chuckle. "I think I could pull it off." After all, what else had he and Lydia been doing their entire time together, if not enjoying each other's company? She'd already confessed to him that she'd never had a real friend before, that she'd never trusted another person before, and that she'd smiled more in the few months she knew him than the last five years of her life.

Elisa left him as he rose to his full height, finally stepping out onto the balcony. He crossed over to her opposite side, placing himself strategically so looking at him would have her avoid looking back in the room. Sometimes, he admitted silently, the way his mind worked was insanely beneficial in subtle ways.

"You know," he commented offhandedly, "I don't think it's good for your dress, to be sitting on stone like that."

She gave a silent laugh, smiling ever so slightly. "I don't think I'll be wearing it again."

He shrugged. "You never know." He noticed, as he looked at her now, that he could see four scars on her left arm alone. He had never seen them before; they were barely visible. That thought, unfortunately, led back to the recent knowledge of her some three hundred seventy-two stitches. Forty-two scars, she'd said.

She wasn't replying, he noted. He had to think of something else.

Standing straight up was tough for someone unused to it, enough so that he hopped up onto the wall to crouch beside her, rather than remain the way he was. Looking over at her, he started, "Just out of curiosity, do you think you could jump from here and be okay?"

She scoffed. "Not on these heels; not in the least." She tilted a glance at him. "And I know what you're doing."

"What, asking questions?" he replied innocently.

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Hey, am I here to help or what?" he said smoothly. Reaching over, he ghosted the backs of his fingers along her upper arm, raising goosebumps. "You know me. I've always got a plan." She shivered once, a reaction to the goosebumps no doubt. He raised his hand further, catching her chin and lifting so she looked up higher. "And quit looking down."

She smiled a warm kind of smile, keeping it up even after he'd released her chin. "Yes sir, Mr. Second In Command," she replied with a sarcastic undertone. She lifted her hand in salute.

He chuckled. "That's what I like to hear, soldier," he returned, saluting back.

She scooted over closer to sit up against him, leaning into him. The motion knocked over her champagne glass, though she didn't retrieve it. It covered the stone halfway, not enough in the glass to have made it dribble or stream.

Though she couldn't see it, thanks to the glamour spell, his wings were arched behind him. He draped one over her, waiting to see her reaction. She glanced over, saw nothing, then smirked up at him.

"That's a wing, right?" she asked.

He nodded. "So am I forgiven?"

"For pissing me off earlier?"

"I still don't know what I did."

"I don't get it either, I just got mad is all." She frowned. "Yeah, you're forgiven. I think you've earned it."

He considered his options now, thinking she would probably enjoy getting away from the party. But that would mean gliding off with her, and it was a cold October night, and she was a human, barely covered. . . He dashed that thought away. It wouldn't help to make her shiver.

Then he glanced up, at the tower Goliath slept on.

He said, "Want to go someplace more private?"

"Depends. Is it colder?"

"The wind would be," he allowed, "but that's what leather wings are for." He gave a sly look and she responded by smiling warmly.

"Sure. Take me there."

He pulled her onto his back, then set to climbing up the stone. He noticed a few humans staring at them as they went, but he didn't acknowledge it. As far as he was concerned, the party was over. From this point on, the two of them were going to be alone and just talk, as they'd done so many times before.

It was a good plan.


	13. Mischievous Reappearance

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Thirteen_

Lydia knew the moment the party ended because the glamour spell wore off and she could suddenly see the wing draped across her shoulders, curving around her feet. It was an excellent ward against the chill of the October night. Or did that make it November first?

She was sitting against the stone on the tallest tower, arms around her knees, which were drawn up to her chest. She was side-to-side with Brooklyn, who was lounging in a more human pose on his rear. Both his wing and tail were practically dead weight beside him, and his legs were halfway stretched out, knees still bent a little.

She'd already commented on his pose, to which he replied, "It's not uncomfortable."

She'd rolled her eyes and said, "That doesn't make it comfortable. But, hey, if you're fine, I've got no complaints."

Those lines had launched a conversation about what they figured the others would be comfortable doing, such as standing or sitting poses, which had turned into a rather heated debate about a gargoyle's flexibility. Lydia was adamant that their muscle structure demanded that some things were impossible, but that every creature was built in a way that allowed them to reach every part of their body. Brooklyn disproved this by being unable to touch multiple spots on his back; the wings got in the way. She countered that the 'hands' on his wings could probably reach the spots his hands couldn't.

The debate refused to be resolved, so eventually it was lost to a new subject.

It had been fun for her, though, to theorize about his muscle structure. He looked a little uncomfortable about the subject, so she didn't bring it up again, but her mind was still racing ahead. She was excited, and there was no stopping her now. She found herself twisting her hands in ways he wouldn't understand; to her, she was mapping out his back in little gestures he could never have deciphered.

They had spent hours like that, she assumed, before his wings were visible again. Then she rose, with more than a few aches protesting the move. It felt good to stretch, though, and she could tell Brooklyn was enjoying the change, too. They both stood up and stretched, flexing. The difference was that she gave a little contented moan, while he groaned in a way only a gargoyle could manage.

She doubled over laughing at the sound, holding her stomach. She wasn't sure why it was so hilarious, but then, she'd been all kinds of emotional today. Maybe --

She broke off the laughing so suddenly that it worried him. She ignored it. Her emotional status for today could only be caused by one thing: her menstrual cycle was coming around. All pleasant thoughts were banished as this knowledge hit her.

"God, it sucks being female," she muttered. To her surprise, he demanded that she _not_ go into detail. Which meant he understood -- and didn't want to hear any more.

She was giggling again at his fearful tone. And then she wondered if he'd done that on purpose. It fit with his character to distract her like that.

She didn't think too hard on it.

"Well, there's a few hours till sunrise, right?" she asked, glancing up.

"You know, winter is the best time for gargoyles," he replied offhandedly. "So many hours of nighttime." His eyes went to the east horizon. "Should be another five hours to go until sunrise."

"Good. Then I can change." She sighed, unbuckling her heels. "These things'll kill me one day."

He chuckled. "I thought you had more confidence in your abilities."

"I do. When I'm in practical shoes." She sighed happily when they were off, hooking them around one finger. Then she lifted her arms. "Take me down, wingman."

He shook his head but swept her up in his arms. "You know there's a way up and down this tower without gliding, right?" he asked as he dove off.

The initial drop made her cling to him. "Well, _yeah._ But why walk when you can fly?" she retorted.

He didn't bother making the distinctions between _flying_ and _gliding_ anymore. She knew it was because he knew she was just teasing. The distinction didn't matter, anyway; they both knew what she meant. She just preferred to think she was flying instead of slowly falling.

He set her on her feet once he touched down, and she walked back inside, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

"You comin'?"

"Yeah," he agreed, trailing behind. "There's no way I'm going on patrol like _this,_" he said, gesturing himself.

She snickered. "I dunno, it might be useful." Then she creased her brow in thought. "Why are you going out to patrol tonight, anyway? I figured it would be a break, to hang out instead of go stop burglaries."

"Halloween is a reckless night," he sighed. "Lots of troublemakers."

"Did you _really_ just use that word?" she giggled.

"Quiet, whippersnapper. And get off my lawn before I hose you down!"

This time she laughed much louder. "You know, I actually got that line once before."

He laughed, too. "Did you really? I didn't see that one coming."

"I used to cut through this old man's lawn every day to and from school," she explained, reaching her temporary room door. She spun to face him. "He wasn't very appreciative."

"It's trespassing," he reasoned.

"It also cut ten minutes off my walk, both ways," she disagreed. "Less chance of getting lynched like that. Now go on; this is my room." She stepped back and shut the door as he shook his head again.

It surprised her, how easily she just admitted to being lynched. It had happened more than once – unpleasant memories, all of them. Normally she wouldn't have said anything about her high school days, but this time the words had slipped out without thought. She wondered what he was thinking now.

Then she shook the thoughts from her mind and set to disassembling herself. Sure, she'd worn more complicated outfits before, but this one included makeup. She didn't often wear it, partially because it was so hard to get rid of later on. Especially all this new, waterproof stuff. How were women supposed to wash the makeup off when it was waterproof? With a firetruck's hose?

She was oddly reluctant to wash it off, though, seeing herself. She really was adorable. Fox was a genius. She hadn't seen that one coming – wasn't it enough that Fox was stunning, agile, graceful, intelligent and cunning and everything else that Lydia wanted to be? Why did she have to be the kind of woman who knew exactly what kind of pretty all the other girls were, and how to bring it out? Was there anything she wasn't already perfect at?

Lydia heaved a sigh and got to work on herself. She wondered if she would ever wear this dress again. _Not likely,_ she answered herself, the voice in her head thick with the Brooklyn accent. She worked to steady it out. _What d'you think you are, the bell o' the ball? Not your style. Just no._

Well, she may be annoyed at the accent in her head, but the inner monologue was right. Her style wasn't frilly white things. Her style was vests, fingerless gloves, black leather (though she had little of it), laced boots and jeans. Wristbands and choker necklaces and seeing how straight she could make her hair. Halfway between punk and rock star, she liked to think.

Maybe tomorrow she'd pull out all the stops and really dress up. It'd been a while since she'd had fun like that. The last time had been. . .when her neck was still wounded, the same day she'd learned she'd lost her job and had a court date awaiting.

Right after being arrested. Which was directly after being assaulted in her apartment. Which was a few days after being assaulted on the roof.

The timeline seemed to have run by too quickly. . .not that there was anything she could do about it now.

Besides, she never felt more real than when things were rushing around in hectic, chaotic bursts. That was precisely why she had such an easy time adjusting to changes – it was so very _real_ to have to change.

She wasn't surprised that she spent the rest of the night alone in the dining room, working on pictures. Everyone else was gone by the time she'd changed into jeans and a t-shirt, both black. Her hair was still in Shirley Temple curls, but she imagined they would be gone in a day or two. She didn't mind so much, anyway; it kept the longer strands out of her face while she worked.

And as she worked, she plotted.

The end of October – now, technically, November first – meant the timetable was moving again. She had a court date in four weeks. Fox had said the twenty-seventh, right? She wished she'd written it down to make sure. But it didn't matter what day it was. She wasn't planning on being here for the day. She was, in fact, fully planning on being out of the state by then. The only question was how she was going to do it.

And how she was going to survive it.

It hurt, terribly so, imagining herself leaving the castle. She'd found real friends, for the first time, in the clan of gargoyles, in Fox and Elisa and Xanatos. She was even getting along pretty well with Alex.

It especially hurt when she thought of leaving _Brooklyn._ The very thoughts felt wrong, as if she were grabbing live, broken wires, knowing she was going to get shocked but doing it anyway. She wondered if the resulting shock would put her on her back, or worse.

She hadn't realized it until now, but somewhere, somehow, between when she first met him and now, she had begun seeing him as an integral part of her own life. Like he was her left arm – not the all-important right arm, yet just as necessary. Just as valued. Just as easy to handicap her once removed.

Her eyes refocused as she thought, and she found herself sketching Brooklyn. The subject itself made her laugh; she was drawing his back. He was looking over his shoulder, wings spread, wearing a devil-may-care smirk. Or it might had been a full-blown grin. He wasn't showing enough face to tell.

She shook her head, trying to deny the ache that sprang to life in her heart. How could she even consider leaving him behind? He was like – like family, like a guardian angel, like a protective bubble, keeping her out of harm's way. He was funny, a wonderful distraction when she needed one. He was her partner in crime, taking her away when she needed to. He was her opponent in debates, thwarting and being thwarted by her.

But why did she feel this way for him? She couldn't imagine it being anything romantic or lovey-dovey, yet, somehow, she couldn't keep him far from her mind. Did she need him, was that it? Had she grown so dependant on his presence that without him would be equal to death? Could she possibly find her feet under her when she leaves – _if_ she leaves?

She was distracted by Puck suddenly appearing before her. She glanced up, only a little surprised to find him lazing around. . .in midair.

"So what is the _human_ up to?" he wondered, floating over to see her paper.

"Just working on muscle structure," she answered, careless. "Ya know, it's good you showed up. I have a question for you."

"Ohh, the human wants to know something? I'm all ears." He looked very excited.

She figured he was putting on a show, so she did the same, leaning in with an overly-curious face. "Brooklyn said you're not allowed to use magic except when teaching Alex. So, how are you floating there?"

He scoffed. "Pick the _easy_ question. It's quite simple – Oberon relaxed the rules a little. I'm allowed to use magic in the building, too." He sighed. "Still quite a restriction. Maybe he'll relax more with time. . ." He trailed off, looking off into nothing, thoughtful.

"Well, that's the end of my questions," she shrugged.

He pouted. "You're no fun. We should play a game. It's been a long time since I had a new playmate." He twisted around midair, onto his back. "What to do, what to do. . ?"

"Uhh. . .you got me?" She couldn't think of anything that would interest him.

"Well, if _you're_ not going to make any suggestions, then I'll –"

He broke off so abruptly that she glanced up, confused. His expression made her curious, because it was a little devious, and his eyes were glued to her sketchbook.

"What?" she wondered, realizing a second too late that she shouldn't have invited him.

He grinned. It wasn't a crazy kind of grin, but it split his face in a way she _knew_ wouldn't be good for her.

"If I go missing, you're gonna end up in trouble," she warned before he could do anything.

His face fell, then he pouted, crossing his arms and sitting upright, disgruntled. "Six years ago that wouldn't have been a problem," he complained. Then he glanced up, out of the open, arching doorway.

She heard the sound of leathery wings flapping in the wind, knowing the others would be here in seconds. She wondered if Brooklyn would come in and see her before roosting for the day.

Before the thought was complete, Puck threw an even larger grin at her. She didn't trust that look on his face, but she had no time to react as he began rhyming.

"I think you should have some fun, tiny human, silly little one, so what say you we play a game? The end will come when you say a name of someone in this big, big city – if you don't, well, such a pity. Then forever will you stay flesh by night but stone by day."


	14. A Wondrous Change

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Fourteen_

"I think you should have some fun, tiny human, silly little one, so what say you we play a game? The end will come when you say a name of someone in this big, big city – if you don't, well, such a pity. Then forever will you stay flesh by night but stone by day."

Brooklyn touched grass in time to hear the rhyme begin, and – recognizing Puck's voice, and that he was rhyming – dashed towards the open archway the voice was coming from.

He got there just in time to be blinded by a flash of light. He was half-dreading what he was about to see, but at the same time, half-hopeful. If Puck cast the spell Brooklyn _thought_ he'd cast, then Lydia would be. . .

A feral snarl was his first clue that the expected change had happened. When the light cleared, Lydia remained, yet now she was golden-brown and sported an extra three limbs. When she turned to swipe at Puck, he saw that the back of her shirt was missing to allow for the wings, and the belt of her jeans was torn to allow for the tail. Her shoes were missing – assuming she'd worn any.

"Lydia?" he gasped.

She turned a sharp look on him, and he jolted to see that her eyes were still violet.

She was one-hundred percent a mimicry of the gargoyle female he'd once loved. The sight of her sent his brain spiraling back in time. If not for her clothes being different and her hair being shorter, he would have thought that female had somehow come to the future to meet him.

She grimaced at him as Puck vanished, chuckling.

"Uh. . .Lydia," was all he could think to say.

She glanced behind him to the sky. "It's almost sunrise huh?"

He shook himself out of his stupor. "Yeah. There's no time to fix this tonight – you'll have to roost with us." It was a strange thing to say. He felt uncomfortable.

She sighed. "Alright." She spun and snatched up her sketchbook and utensils, closing the book and laying them in a neat pile on the table. Then she turned a strained smile on him. "Does it matter where I. . .sleep?"

"Not really," he answered. He took a step back. "Just. . .follow me."

He spun and climbed up the building, watching to make sure she clawed her way up behind him. A moment of doubt passed, during which he wondered at her ability to climb flat stone, and then it passed. What a stupid thing to think about – she was a free runner as a human, and he'd seen her scale walls without trouble before. Of course she'd have even _less_ trouble with talons to help. He upped the speed, reaching the rest of the clan before Goliath had climbed to the top.

"Puck changed Lydia into a gargoyle just now," he rushed out.

Silence fell like a curtain. The only sound, for a moment, was the crunching of stone as Lydia climbed up to their height. She pulled herself up onto the ledge before much recovery had taken place.

She didn't glance at the others, merely looked over at the horizon. "Is this the time to be standing around, doing nothing?" she asked no one.

"We'll talk more after dusk," Goliath promised, then started pulling himself up the tallest tower.

Everyone kicked back into motion, taking up their places. Brooklyn pointed Lydia to a spot for her to perch. She didn't, really; she pulled one leg up onto the ledge, half-sitting, and relaxed, leaning on one arm, staring out into the distance. He watched her as the sunlight brightened her face and then solidified. It was the last thing he saw before the dreams began.

Lydia woke screaming, body flexing from top to bottom, at the same time as the others. Flecks of stone skin flew off her, colliding with the castle and other flecks from everyone else. A few tiny pieces of stone skin littered her hair from Goliath, high above her.

Now she understood why they groaned and moaned every time they woke up. Regardless of being totally composed of stone for more than half a day, you still woke up with stiff muscles. She flapped her wings twice before realizing what an odd feeling it was, to flap her wings.

And then Brooklyn was at her side, anxious.

"We have to fix you," was the first thing out of his mouth.

She had different ideas. After all, she'd always wanted wings to fly with – this was likely as close as she would ever get. And besides, she'd spent the entire day dreaming of soaring the skies, hiding amidst rafters, bending steel and scaring the bejesus out of everyone who'd ever terrified her as a kid. She wasn't so sure she _wanted_ to be human again. It would be detrimental to her wishes.

"Good luck with that," she replied, then shoved off the building. She didn't want to wait to be taught to glide or to hear Brooklyn begin listing all the reasons why she should go back to being human. If anything, she saw this new development as a gift as opposed to a curse.

For instance, Lydia Smith the _human_ had a court date in four weeks and was under house arrest. Lydia the gargoyle was untouched by those laws. Lydia the gargoyle could go wherever the _hell she pleased_ and no one could stop her.

Her wings fanned out, but it wasn't until the first, disorienting second of plummeting that she realized it probably would have been a better idea to have someone teach her the basics. She wheeled as she fell, unable to control the way her wings were working.

Something collided with her, stopping her death spiral. She hadn't seen Brooklyn as she spun around, but she knew it was him. Who else would leap off the building right after her to keep her from eating it?

She latched onto him instinctively, curling in on herself to make herself as small as possible. His descent was too fast, she noticed. But he wasn't landing; he soared over the castle wall (while calling her an idiot and she had to agree) and then higher up. He had regained control faster than she'd been able to _lose_ control.

"Yeah, yeah," she sighed. "I'm an idiot. So what? I figured it was instinctive." She watched the buildings beneath her as she said this, frowning when the castle was in her line of sight again. "We're not going _back,_" she complained. "I wanna fly."

He glared at her, touching ground. Everyone else had already gathered there, including a slightly-stunned Elisa and disapproving Fox. He set her on her feet.

She pouted, crossing her arms. Without thought, her wings folded too, around her shoulders.

Angela was giving pitying looks. "I'm sorry about this," she said.

Lydia scoffed. "Yeah, it's a real pain in the ass," she retorted, sarcastic.

"We'll get Puck to change you back," Goliath promised.

She stared at him. "Why?" she wondered, the word escaping before she could think it.

Stun again. No one moved for a second, while Bronx whined uneasily.

"Lydia, you're a human," Elisa told her.

"That's debatable," Lydia returned, pointing at her.

"No it's not," Fox disagreed. "And Puck shouldn't be messing with you like this. You're a human; you should stay a human."

"By whose definition?"

Brooklyn sighed. "Why are you being so difficult?" Lydia glanced at him. "We need to break this spell and get you turned back."

She stared blankly. Then she blinked, shaking herself free. "I wanna talk to you," she said, voice severe, "now." She could've sworn that he had a crush on her – why in the world would he _not_ want her to be the same species as himself? Was he unhappy being a gargoyle? Did he wish to be a human? Why did he want her to be human again so bad?

He leaned back, suspicious. "We don't have time for talk. We have to fix you."

She inhaled sharply, squaring her shoulders. "_Fuck_ no," she spat, her accent falling through just a bit. "Being a human sucks ass – not that you would know," she added, rolling her eyes.

"You can't honestly want to stay like that!" he snapped, gesturing her.

Hurt and rejection washed through her. He was making all the stupid mistakes; just yesterday she'd mentioned that she was PMSing, and now he was crossing lines he shouldn't be crossing.

Like, for instance, telling her what she did and didn't want.

She heard herself snarl at him, watching with vindictive satisfaction as he took a step back.

"Lydia, that isn't helping," Elisa told her gently. Her voice was calm, soothing.

It had the opposite effect. "What in the world makes you think I _want_ help?" she snapped, turning on Elisa. "I can think of worse things than being a gargoyle. Like, let's say, being _human._ I'd rather stay like this, _thank_ you."

"Not gonna happen," Elisa replied, shaking her head.

"I understand if you want to be a gargoyle," Fox started, (Lydia thought the other woman had no idea what she was talking about) "but it's not you. Everything has its natural order. You have to understand this."

"You're talking to someone who studied biology," Lydia told her, "and enough so that she knows very well how nature and orders and _everything in its place_ works. Right now, I don't give a shit. What's one less human? I'll tell you – one more gargoyle. Where's the tragedy in that?" she challenged.

Hudson heaved a sigh that was half a groan. "I'm too old for this," he complained, heading inside with a "good luck" pat to Goliath's shoulder. Bronx went after him, whining at Lydia.

"Am I the only one who's _okay_ with this?" she bit out, gesturing herself.

"You need to go back to being human," Elisa said with difficulty.

Lydia scoffed. "Right. That's just like someone winning the lottery and then taking away all their money, saying, 'Yeeeeaaaah we made a mistake. Things were better the way they were before.'" She rolled her eyes as she spoke.

Elisa ignored her this time, facing Goliath. "How did the spell go?"

Goliath turned to Brooklyn and Lydia, waiting expectantly. Lydia glared; she would give nothing away that would shorten her time as a gargoyle.

Brooklyn answered (the traitor), "Puck said the spell would end when she speaks the name of someone in the city."

"First name and last name?" Elisa prodded.

Brooklyn shrugged. "I'm guessing."

Lydia, in a show of disobedience, made a motion of zipping her lips closed and throwing away the key. She crossed her arms again and kept on glaring. She put her foot down on this; everything else she'd bent on. Losing her job when she could have fought, escaping this building after being put under house arrest, not breaking out of jail when she could have slipped between the bars, being halfway forced to attending a Halloween party. . .

Not this time. This time she was standing up for what she wanted.

And she wanted to remain as she was. If that meant being mute for the rest of her life, well, she didn't really _need_ a tongue. . .or teeth. Or vocal cords. And she knew exactly how to perform surgery on herself, should she have to. All she needed was a needle and thread, a scalpel or equally sharp blade, and enough painkillers to fell an elephant. She was certain she could find those items somewhere in the castle, if not the building itself.

The others were talking strategy as all this was decided. Phone books and the internet were suggested; Lydia considered mutiny. An added suggestion involved the Census; Lydia began eying the skies.

Then Angela entered her field of vision, eyes sad. "I'm sorry about this, Lydia," she started.

Lydia blinked. "I'm not," she replied. She found, then, that she couldn't be angry at the woman. Something about Angela was so very delicate, Lydia couldn't imagine being harsh with her.

"But you're a human," Angela argued, shaking her head. "This must be hard for you."

"Confusing and new, yes," Lydia agreed. "But not hard."

"Puck did a cruel thing, casting a spell on you," Angela went on.

Lydia shrugged. "Maybe. You know what, come with me," she rushed out, catching the other woman's hand. She spun and headed for the wall, wings unfurling as she went. Once there, she released Angela and launched herself to the top with little effort; Angela landed softly beside her.

"What are you thinking?" Angela wondered, eying her.

"I'm thinking that I may be a gargoyle for a while, even with all that planning behind me," Lydia answered, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. "And I'm thinking that I ought to learn the basics as long as that lasts."

"You want me to teach you to glide," Angela concluded.

Lydia nodded. "You got it."

"It's mostly instinctive," the dark beauty began, thinking it over. "You need to control the strength and angle of yours wings. Be mindful of the wind, seek out air currents. . .And know when you need to land," she advised.

"Don't worry about me falling and hurting myself," Lydia smirked. "I've taken thirty-foot falls before and walked away with only aching feet."

"Gargoyle feet are much tougher," Angela chuckled.

"All the better for me, then."

"Take off and follow me," Angela ordered, shoving off the wall and circling around, gaining height.

Lydia grinned. "I have a better idea." She launched herself off the building, folding her wings in a straight dive. She heard Angela call out to her, but the wind in her ears blocked out the words. That, alone, was amazing - that she could even hear Angela at all.

She spread her wings, caught the air, and shot into a glide. The _snap_ from dive to glide made her a little dizzy. At least this time she was holding her wings steady.

It didn't take long for Angela to appear at her side.

"Don't do that," she snapped. "What if you crashed? Brooklyn would kill me!"

"You're with me now, aren't you?" Lydia returned, unable to clear the smile on her face.

"Just don't get hurt," Angela pressed.

"Sure thing, doll," Lydia laughed.


	15. Words Are Weapons Too

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Fifteen_

Brooklyn was none too happy when he came back to get Lydia and found her missing. Broadway informed him that she took off with Angela, and from the sounds of it, did so to learn to glide. That knowledge didn't make him any happier about the situation.

And what an odd situation it was! Logically, he should be thrilled. He liked Lydia more than a little; he couldn't deny the truth of _that_. And now she was a gargoyle, if only briefly. He should be making the most of this time. But, instead, he was irritated and confused. Her being a spot-on match of his past obsession was probably helping in that department.

What else could he do, or think? The change not only took him by surprise, but was completely unfathomable to him. It just felt so _wrong_ for her to be. . .something else. It was unnatural. He wanted her to be back as what she truly was.

And yet, oddly, he had a little voice in his head that told him she wasn't a human - not truly. That thought left him baffled. What else would she be?

He could have hit himself. What a stupid question. They lived in a fantastical world, where little was as it appeared. Still, that didn't make Lydia nonhuman.

And he didn't like being suspicious of her. That, too, was stupid. She as good as needed him; there was no falsity about her when she looked at him with helplessness in her eyes. There was never the ring of a lie when she spoke. She was as honest as a person could be - with him, at least.

That didn't stop him from being annoyed with her. How dare she just take off without a word like that! Didn't she know how much he cared for her? He felt certain he'd made it clear last night. And now she was gone to who knows where, where he couldn't keep an attentive eye on her.

Brooklyn had never been one for pouting, but now he felt one coming on. While everyone else went on patrol, he stayed behind, waiting for her to come back. It was probably quicker than looking all over the city for her, anyway.

Elisa had to go to work, but Fox was free to "question" Puck about his newest game. With luck, Alex could solve this, should Puck refuse to.

That left Brooklyn with empty time and nothing to fill it with. He'd be damned before he spent the entire night pacing, awaiting Lydia's return. How long could she glide on new wings, anyway? Certainly not very long. Soon she would be tired and on her way back. . .

He dashed those thoughts from his mind. Now wasn't the time to be thinking such things. Now was the time to be planning. There were so many people in Manhattan, it would be very hard and time-consuming to name off all the residents, one by one, until the spell ended. On the other hand, they might be able to get more clues from Puck, to narrow down the list.

Sort of like the tale of Rumpelstiltskin, of the woman trying to guess his name by listing every male name she knew of. Lydia was the cursed girl. The question was: who was Rumpelstiltskin, in this case?

The sound of rushing wind on leather made him glance up. Who was coming back early? He knew who he _wanted_ it to be, but that didn't make it the truth, did it?

At first he saw Angela, a flash of violet and white, swoop above the castle walls, then drop down on her feet. A streak of gold and black was on her tail, copying the move exactly.

While Angela looked pleased, Lydia was more like _ecstatic._ She was grinning, her eyes alight. It seemed to foul Brooklyn's mood further.

"You," he accused, stalking closer. "You took off."

She glanced at him in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry, my lord. Should I have waited for your permission?"

Angela grimaced. "He means well," she tried to say to the other girl.

Lydia scowled. "Usually people who mean well choose their words better," she retorted.

Brooklyn shook his head. Her words had stunned him a little. He hadn't meant it to sound like he wanted her under his thumb, but he didn't see any way to salvage himself now.

"The point is," he started, "that you had me worried. What if you had crashed, huh?"

"I told you he'd say that," Angela said to Lydia.

Lydia shook her head. "Regardless. I didn't crash and I don't care much if I had. What's the worst that could happen, huh? I break my toe and oh - it's fixed tomorrow night?" He tried to reply, but she swept on before he could. "You're talking to a woman who's spent her entire life getting hurt by _others_ while learning how to avoid injury doing some of the dumbest stunts a human can do. I think I can handle myself."

She didn't wait for his reply, just headed for the yawning archway before her.

"Now hang on there," he snapped, dashing to get in front of her. "Alright, I could've chosen my words better," he allowed, "but that's no reason for you to bite my head off."

"Is there a better reason?" she asked, sarcastic. "I'll take that one, then."

He straightened, surprised at her tone. "What is with you? When did you become such a bitch?"

He regretted his choice of words instantly.

She snarled at him. "When you decided to start crowding me. Now get out of my way."

His anger was responding to hers now. Without thought, he spread his wings to bar her way further.

She whirled and sprinted for the nearest wall, and he chased after, leaving a stunned Angela behind. When Lydia began climbing, he was right on her tail. And she was quick, as if made for scaling walls; each hand and foot only touched the stone briefly before reaching higher.

"Running away again, huh?" he accused.

She turned a growl on him. "I'm not running away, least of all from _you_," she snapped.

"Sure looks like it," he shot back.

"You know what, go jump off a bridge. _Please,_" she added with venom.

"Ladies first," he offered, sweeping his arm out in invitation.

She leapt off. At first he was surprised she took his offer, but then he saw her angle. She was heading for the archway again. He darted after her.

And as she fell, she was still arguing. "I'm getting really tired of you, you know! All this protection crap -" she landed - "is getting old!"

He touched ground after her. "Well, someone has to look after you, and wouldn't you know it? I'm the one stuck with that job!"

"If you hate it so much, quit!" she snarled, reaching the table. Her sketchbook, left over from the previous night, was still sitting on top. With furious motions, she flipped it open to a clean page.

"I would if I could," he yelled. "You're nothing but an annoying, infuriating, confusing little girl!"

"Uh, guys," Angela tried to intervene. She was ignored.

"Oh, is that supposed to be an insult?" Lydia wondered. She met his gaze. "Tell me you can do better than that. Let's not lose faith in you, huh?"

Her words were starting to sting. It only made him angrier. "You know, I used to think you were pretty strong, to be treated so badly growing up and still managing to have a pretty good outlook. But now I see you turned out just as horrible as expected."

She looked shocked. Good. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means you're an antisocial child with a demented mind who can't make any friends!" he blurted.

He felt bad almost instantly. This is because her expression went from shock to hurt, and then to fury. Justified fury, he figured.

And then she was on the offensive. "Well, who was it who fell in love with this antisocial, demented, friendless girl?" she challenged, brutal. "The beak-faced gargoyle, that's who. You say there's something wrong with me? Well, there's something wrong with you, too!"

"Beak-faced?" he echoed, hurt and burning on the inside. "I guess I was just hoping there was something worth loving about you! Showed me, didn't you? You're nothing but a _**human!**_" he bellowed at the end.

Her eyes widened. And then she threw her sketchbook at his feet, a few pages flinging out as it went. "You know what? Keep it!" she snapped, before darting out of the doorway and into the night.

He didn't follow, and after a moment, he heard her shriek. It was that sound, so unnatural in her lungs, that smothered all his righteous flames. Now he felt nothing except regret and a liberal amount of pain. When he glanced outside, Angela was standing there, looking off in the distance. After a moment, she turned sad eyes on him.

Now he could see no course of action besides getting Lydia back. He drove her away with thoughtless words, and so she'd ran. It wasn't surprising - it was exactly what he'd expected of her. When someone hurts her, she runs. It's all she knows how to do.

Those thoughts only made it worse. _He_ had been the one to hurt her this time. And though her words had hurt him, too, he knew what he had to do now. He had to apologize first, to take that first step. Because she needed help when it came to trusting others, and if he could prove himself trustworthy, it would - hopefully - pave the way for her. And then she would apologize too, for her own harsh words.

At the end of this fiasco, they would be friends again.

But he wasn't so sure he wanted it to end there - at just friends. She was right when she said he loved her. And what had he done? Drove her away.

He and Angela passed each other; she heading for the sketchbook, he for the wall and the direction Lydia had gone.

Angela called him back. "Wait, Brooklyn - look at this," she said.

He didn't like the idea of letting Lydia get further away, but took a step back all the same. "What is it? Be quick," he urged.

"Look at this," she said again, holding out the sketchbook.

He came closer and looked. It was open to a sketch of him. That didn't surprise him; he was Lydia's friend, after all. And she was a hell of an artist, drawing all the time.

And then Angela began flipping through the pages. Half the book was filled, and almost every page had him on it, more than a few displaying _more_ than one of him. The most recent page is what Angela stopped on.

He stared. On the left side of the page was him, right hand outstretched to the other side, leaning back a bit. And on the other side was a female gargoyle he'd never seen before, with long, back-swept horns, three fingers and toes instead of four, and a stout, rounded beak for a mouth.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this particular picture was the contrast. His likeness was finished, from highlights to shading to the shadow at his feet. The woman, however, was much more sketchy, and only her face, wings, hands, feet and tail had the beginnings of shading. Her entire torso was lacking clothes of any kind, though it bore the remains of lines erased, redrawn, and erased again. And beside her were several written notes, as if Lydia was trying to figure out the female's clothes through words.

"_What is here?"_ it read, with an arrow pointing to the female's waist. _"Like a thick belt, but with no clasp. A sash?" "The sleeves don't connect?" "It crisscrosses, but which way?"_

"What is this?" he wondered aloud.

"I don't know," Angela replied, "but my guess? Lydia wants you to be happy."

He glanced up, surprised. He thought he _was_ happy already. He had fun with Lydia - wasn't that enough? Or did she see something he didn't?

He shook his head. "I've got to find her. If the others ask, just tell them I took her out for lessons."

As he darted away and up the wall, he only glanced back once, to see that Angela was looking down at the sketchbook. He tried not to think about it as he took off, his body moving with instinct towards the strongest updrafts, his eyes scanning the skies for her.

He only had a few ideas of where to look for her, based on places they'd been and places she'd spoken of. Knowing her and the way she thought, he had a plan formed in no time. She wouldn't go back to her apartment, because he knew where it was. She wouldn't go anywhere she could be seen, either. And she'd likely be going as far away from the castle as she could, until she couldn't see the building anymore.

All that narrowed it down to one place, a warehouse she once describe to him. It was long since abandoned, though by some miracle, the power remained on - likely someone didn't flip the switch off. She would go there, she told him, with a radio and just play. Of course this was her version of "play" - which meant dangerous. Climbing, jumping, skidding, flipping; basically flirting with death with every move she made.

Being a gargoyle made her more durable, but that thought didn't comfort him much. A gargoyle could still break her neck. Especially one so prone to falling on her head.

Although he had a plan logical enough to follow through, he was still surprised when he reached the warehouse and heard music playing. She actually did what he thought she would do. Somehow it left him unsettled; since when could he predict anything about her?

The sound of metal tearing caught his attention as he landed on the roof. He started looking for a window to drop through at about the same time he heard a very clear yowl followed by angry muttering. When he dropped through and touched ground, it was to duck as a car engine flew above his head.

She hadn't noticed him yet, he saw, as she scanned the wall in sharp motions, looking for something else to break. That engine was a lucky throw.

"Lydia?" he said loudly, having a hard time talking above the booming notes coming from the radio.

She spun, disbelief in her eyes as she recognized him. Shock passed over her features, and then fury took its place. "I can't get rid o' you, can I?" she shrieked, clearly more infuriated than before. Her accent was coming through, strong and clear.

He didn't dare come any closer. From a distance, he tried to placate her. "Lydia, calm down, please? I'm here to apologize."

"Then get to it an' get outta my hair!" she snapped.

"I'm sorry for what I said," he told her, hoping she could hear him over the music. It was kind of ironic - this is the kind of music he liked. If not for their terrible relationship right then, it would've been fun to hang out, listen, and talk with her.

Without his ire, her flames seemed to lessen. For a moment she couldn't meet his eyes, and then she went over to the radio and shut it off. She didn't say anything; she merely stood there, her back to him, head down.

He wished he knew what she was thinking. That would've made it easier to figure out what to say. He only hoped they wouldn't end up arguing again.


	16. Her End

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Sixteen_

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Some part of Lydia had known, since the beginning, that she would end up being the focus of Brooklyn's attention some day. Some part of her warned her that she should back off, that she would only get in the way of where his life was leading him. And some part of her kept whispering back, _"But I need him, too."_

She had said the words earlier - "And who was it that fell in love with this antisocial, demented, friendless girl?" - and now she regretted it. Words flying without thought, the only intention being to hurt the other person; that was the definition of an argument.

Anger was a drug to her, always was. For as long as she could remain righteously angry with the world, she needed nothing else. The anger kept her going for every day she woke to find she was still friendless, unloved, and unwanted. It was a change to wake, look over, and see Brooklyn looking at her, regardless of spells involved. And it was a change she didn't know how to adjust to.

She'd been spending more time with him than she used to spend vying for attention from her unseeing foster parents. And it'd only been little over a month.

"What else do you want?" she demanded now, in a softer tone. Without his own ire directed at her, it was difficult to keep up her own flames. How was she supposed to push him away when he wasn't pissing her off?

A little part of her whispered, _You need to push him away,_ as if in agreement. _Find a way. Do it._

". . .Beyond apologizing?" he started, just as quiet. "I. . .I didn't think that far ahead. I just don't want you running off in anger."

"Would running off in joy be any better?" she challenged, weak. "Or in depression?"

"No." His tone almost made her turn to look at him: a little hurt, a little sad, but all gentle. It almost sounded like a plead. "I don't want you to run at all. I want you to come back with me, to the castle."

_He can't love you,_ that little voice murmured. This time, a small part of her noticed the complete lack of an accent. How strange; was the voice coming from someone else? Telepathy? Or was it coming from a part of her that had remained silent until now?

It went on, _Drive him away. Hurt him, if you have to._ She could hardly believe herself; she needed him, and yet, her inner monologue was telling her to get rid of him? _I can't do that,_ she thought back, fierce.

". . .Not now," she said at length. "I want to stay here."

"Then can I stay here with you?"

She bit her lip. _No, he can't; push him away!_

How odd that the voice was beginning to sound desperate.

_I need him. Shut up._ "If you want," she allowed. "Not like I could force you away if I tried."

_Tap. Tap. Tap._ He was coming closer, and though her ears focused on the sound with increasing interest, she cringed a little harder with each step. It was so contradictory, but a part of her needed him, while another knew something - some reason for him to stay away from her. Like a glimpse into the future, she saw only tragedy if he kept on loving her.

_Hurt him. Break his heart. Make him hate you._

She grit her teeth. _I won't!_

He was close now, close enough that she could feel his warmth, hear his breathing. Before she could gather enough thought to turn around, his arms went around her, and then his wings.

What was she to do? This was different from any situation she'd been in so far. It felt warm and comfortable and sweet and touching - and it hurt. A lot. The positive and negative were irreconcilable. She couldn't deal with it. Loving and hating this embrace would be her undoing.

Despite how much she wanted it to continue (more so as the seconds ticked and he lowered his beak to her shoulder) she pushed out, breaking the hold.

"Don't do that again," she warned, her voice shaky. She tried not to think about _why._

She heard him inhale sharply, then sigh. "Okay."

A shot of pain went through her. Why did he agree so easily? Why no argument, no trying to make his case? Why didn't he fight to get her affections? Why did he give up?

_Because he's supposed to,_ that little voice whispered.

Now what the _hell_ was that supposed to mean?

"I'd like to be alone for a while," she said. "Don't worry, though. I'll be coming back."

He didn't say anything for a few moments, just breathing. Then he replied, "See you later." His footfalls took him away, towards a metal frame rack she knew well - it would lead to one of the skylights in the roof. A quick way out.

A human would've gone for the door. She found herself smirking at the irony. _She_ wouldn't have gone for the door, even before the spell. She would've gone for the skylight.

She noticed him pause, though, when he should've been climbing.

He said, "Why did you push me away?"

She was startled, hearing words come from his mouth that so closely resembled her own thoughts. Without thinking, her reply was, "It felt like a cage."

In a sense, it had. She hadn't realized it until the words came out, but it was true. For a split second, she remembered the feeling she'd had in the jail cell, the feeling that had been repeated when she was told she was remanded to the Eyrie building.

Brooklyn left then, noisily climbing up the metal rack and out through the roof. She hadn't looked at him once since she'd turned away. _As you were meant to do._

What the hell was that voice talking about? Was it even hers? A month ago, she would have been positive that it was; now, she wasn't sure what to think. With the whole new world she knew of, who could say there weren't telepaths?

_The good news is: nottin' has changed,_ she told herself, _'cept your perception._ It was comforting to think so. The only difference between now and then (besides her new gargoyle body) was that now she knew the extent of the world's limits was far beyond what the average human knew.

Now she was stuck with her thoughts, without anger to keep her lit, and a new form of weakness penetrating her limbs. It felt like sadness, emptiness, loneliness. He'd been gone less than ten seconds and she missed him already. Yet she couldn't deny the feeling of it being _right_ - he shouldn't be with her. When they were apart, _that_ was what was right.

No matter how much she needed him, he needed to stay away from her even more.

She sank to the floor, that weakness turning into a numb kind of pain. She couldn't decide if it hurt or not; either way, she was miserable.

Over time, she found herself thinking of her old life, before changing her name. _Veronica Lewis._ _Lydia Smith._ What was in a name? _A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. . ._ Did that apply for other senses? Other perceptions? _A girl by any other name would be as alone. . ._

She thought she was starting to understand, starting to understand why she needed to stay away from Brooklyn, yet why she couldn't. She was clinging to him; she could see that. She could remember clinging to Jake, her adopted brother in law, during the years when he paid attention to her. It was an unbelievable pain when he, too, turned his back on her.

In that sense, she was setting herself up for more pain. Here she was, clinging to Brooklyn, and hurt because she had to stay away from him. Why couldn't she have just chosen not to go after him? Things would've been. . .well, consistent. Not better, but exactly lined up in ways she could work with. She would have her job, spending her evenings sketching or playing, spending her days dead asleep.

It wasn't a bad life. In fact, it had been a life she had been almost content with, and that alone was a huge improvement on her past.

"Why am I so cursed?" she wondered aloud, thumbing through her past like a person flipping through pages in a book. Pain, misery, loneliness and emptiness. Is that why she pushed Brooklyn away? She only knew these things; happiness was beyond her comprehension. Maybe she just couldn't stand the idea of him always being there for her. Maybe she couldn't trust herself to trust in his presence.

Maybe things would've been better if she'd have remained Veronica Lewis. Maybe, but. . .

"Veronica Lewis is dead," she hissed at no one.

What happened then reworked her sense of reality.

In truth, two things happened at once. The first was a mental revelation; if Veronica Lewis was dead, then Lydia had been reborn. Her life following renaming herself led to that truth, as everything about her had changed. The physical changes were most obvious: cutting her hair much shorter, beginning to use makeup to make her seem darker, eating better to help with her "training". But the mental changes had been just as profound, because by ridding herself of that uncaring family, she ended all feelings of withering hope and trust, instead becoming wholly dependant on herself.

The entire time this revelation was revealing itself, her body was tingling with a sensation she couldn't name, but had felt once before. A light erupted from her very skin, illuminating the room in pure white evanescence; there and gone before she had really noticed it.

Puck's words rang in her ears: _The end will come when you say the name of someone in this big, big city._ And he'd chosen the name of a woman long dead in Lydia's own eyes, the name _least_ likely for her to ever say aloud.

Which she just had.

She screamed. And screamed. Then she thrashed as she screamed, getting to her feet and aiming to wreck the building - except that she no longer had the strength to do so. She hit the stereo at one point, bruising her hand and causing it to play. The blasting, heavy notes fought with her cries, both drowning out the other.

Frustration was something she felt far too much of. She was reaching a breaking point, she just knew it. Lydia Smith, the _gargoyle,_ had had no connections to the human world, no jurisdiction could touch her. She could have lived out the rest of her days with the rest of the clan, _belonging_ somewhere for the first time in her life. She could have joined them in their adventures, helping the innocent and punishing the wicked.

She understood now that Puck had actually done her a favor. He had been clever, as she knew he would, picking a name she would otherwise have never spoken aloud. But who could have seen this turn of events?

_You did,_ that quiet voice from earlier said.

_Not you again,_ she hissed back mentally, still shrieking aloud at the injustice of it all. _Get out o' my head!_

The voice returned with a chuckle. _How can I leave when I am trapped here?_

Her yells stopped. _Trapped?_ Trapped where? In her head? Something else - some_one_ else?

_You're very close to the truth,_ it answered. _Now, pay attention. You have a visitor._

_I have a what?_ she wondered, glancing around. She could see nothing - could hear nothing above the stereo. She went back to it and shut it off, still stunned. That was when she heard the echoing footsteps, hastily ended, as if someone was stalking her and did not wish to be found.

If only she were still a gargoyle. . .

She wondered who it was. Someone drawn by the music? By the lights? No one had ever been drawn here before. That made it unlikely. But on the other hand, who, in their right mind, would follow a gargoyle here? It was the only option she could think of. No one lived in this section of town, and rarely did anyone come here for long. That was why she chose it as her playground; the solitude was exquisite. Which meant someone followed her.

Who could follow a gargoyle in flight? Who _would_? Someone who wanted her, that much was obvious. Someone with shoes, which eliminated the possibility of it being another gargoyle.

"Who's there?" she challenged, her previous rage still burning enough that she was willing to face him head-on. "Come out!"

A mocking laugh was her reply. Having been in this building so much over the past year, she could pinpoint its origin without trouble. She faced the direction, absently reaching down to pick up a two-foot metal bar that had fallen there, just in case.

"Are you certain?" a man's voice said, thick with amusement. "Wouldn't you rather die without ever seeing your foe?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she returned easily. _Die?_ her mind repeated. _Someone wants me dead._ She began ruffling through her memories, searching for someone who would want her dead - someone who sounded familiar, somehow. . .

"Ohh," she said, smirking. "You're the asshole who got away." The leader of the four who had assaulted her - twice.

"In the flesh," he agreed, stepping out into the light. He looked just as she remembered, as if he never changed his clothes. He just might not. Blue jeans, grey shirt, heavy brown trench coat, wearing heavy black boots. He didn't match.

"Did you bring a gun?" she wondered. Her heart was hammering at the thought; she _really_ didn't want to be shot at again.

He reached behind him, under the coat, and withdrew a long, wicked-looking dagger. "Nah. Thought this would be a lot more personal."

"Melee range. Perfect." She tapped her pole in her hand.

Taken as an invitation, he rushed at her, holding the knife out at arm's length. For a split second, she could have laughed. The blind bull rush never worked. One had to wonder why anyone tried it anymore.

Rather than stand still, she threw the pole at him, knocking both his knees when he tried to jump over it. She darted to the metal rack that led to the skylight, climbing it with the kind of efficiency one could only achieve with lots of practice. He was yelling at her by the time she was halfway up.

She was considering her options, now that she was out of reach. The most obvious choice was to go for the roof, which she could easily reach from here. She would take any of a dozen planned escape routes down to the ground and into the teeming massing once again, making it impossible for him to catch her. He should know he couldn't catch her, too - she was quick, agile, and in much better shape than he was.

The second option, tempting, was to end it here. A dick like him didn't deserve to breathe the air, let alone to live, only to do such horrid things as kill young women. Though, really, she wasn't surprised he wanted her dead. Most everyone did.

"Get the _fuck_ down here so I can kill you!" he screamed at her.

She had to scoff. "Now why would I do that? Telling me to come down so you can _kill me_ doesn't offer much incentive."

"Fearful little bitch!" he snapped. "You're nothin' but a pile of shivering bones without your freak bodyguard!"

"Brooklyn?" she laughed. "I don't need him to watch my back every instant, you know." She learned then that her calm tones were infuriating him further. It made her happy. "I've lived nearly eighteen years without him. I think I can manage a few more."

"Not after I get done with you!" he snarled back.

"Was that the best comeback you could come up with? Because it was pitiful."

"Yours wasn't too clever either, whore!"

More than his sentence, what befuddled her was the specific insult: _whore_. "You _clearly_ know nothing about me," she told him. "I happen to be a dedicated virgin. _Whoring_ is the last thing I'd do."

She'd shocked him, she could tell. Even through the dim light, on his slightly-illuminated face, from thirty feet above, she could tell. And then he started laughing at her, though she'd been expecting that.

"How pitiful," he said without sincerity. "Boys really don't want you, eh? Can't say I blame them."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," she replied sweetly. "Such a poor little mind you have. There is something called 'personal choice' in this world. It means, by definition, choosing to do things for yourself, by yourself - or not to."

"It's still pitiful."

"I find the lack of STDs quite relaxing, actually."

"Relaxing?" he echoed, disbelief in his tone. "You've been rejecting the single best fuckin' part of life!"

"Maybe I don't see it that way," she snapped. "Maybe what I find pitiful are people like you, who screw and drink and smoke life away like brainless zombies, each one the same as the first. Just maybe you're down _there_ and I'm up _here_ because you've been destroying the one and only body of yours for your entire useless, soundless, meaningless life, while I've been fixing myself up to survive." With a deep breath, she screamed the last bit of her speech, "Did you ever think of that?"

As though his mind had been elsewhere the entire time, he lifted his knife so she could see it more clearly. He replied, "I think I'll screw you with this when I catch you. It's not sex, but no one should die a virgin."

He almost made it sound like an offer. It got under her skin in the most infuriating way.

Before, she'd been planning on how to get to the roof, to the ground, and out of sight before he could get outside and spot her. Now she wanted him hurt, and bad. True, she'd never really wanted a person dead before, but perhaps the world would be better without _this_ one.

She swung down like a trained acrobat, reaching the ground and rushing at him at the same time he rushed at her. It wasn't until they collided and she tried to grab the knife that she remembered she'd never trained with weapons before, not even to play around.

And he was clearly stronger, not to mention taller and heavier. What the hell had her anger led her into? Death, in all likelihood. Regret snaked through her like a heavy, thick mist.

She struggled for the knife, cut her hand on it, barely dodged a slice from it, and then was struck. A punch to the face - with enough force that she spun and collapsed. _Oh, shit._

She spun onto her back in time to see the man was braced over her, the knife descending. She tried to catch it, saw it sever right through her left hand, then imbed itself in her chest. For one second she was in total stun, wondering why it didn't feel like a fatal wound.

Then the pain set in. She yelped, then started screaming; this was the worst pain she'd ever felt. She was so deadened from the pain itself that she didn't _feel_ the knife removed, she only felt a yank that lifted her off the ground for a moment. She realized her eyes were closed.

When she opened them, the man's eyes showed victory as he stood up. He _won._ Only she wouldn't let him. Like the old saying goes - if she has to go down, she's taking him with her.

After all, pain was a companion of hers. She knew how to use it.

With a darting move, she struck out her leg and tripped him, and he flailed as he fell, landing on his back. She surged up (the pain surged with the move), grabbed the knife from his stunned hands, and clutched it in both fists. She was breathing hard for two reasons now: first, the pain, second, she was hyperventilating.

She dove the knife down as he'd down to her, angling it so it threaded through two of his ribs and into his lung. Then she reared up, yanking it out, and down again, into the other lung. _Chances of surviving - slim._ She wasn't sure what happened then, but somewhere between when he started choking on blood and screams, she was caught in a frenzy. With each stab into his torso and neck, it felt good, as if she was killing not just the man, but also feelings she'd never allowed herself to feel before.

After a dozen or so of these thrusts, she'd bled out too much. Her limbs were weak. Light-headed, she collapsed back, the knife skittering out of her grip.

By then, the darkness that ensnared her was welcome.


	17. Rebirth

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Seventeen_

How strange. They - whoever "they" are - always say things about death, how you'll see a bright light at the end of a tunnel, how your life will flash before your eyes, sometimes how all of your questions are answered at once. Those were the indicators that Lydia understood to mean she was dying.

But they didn't quite align with the stories she'd heard. The light at the end of the tunnel? It wasn't a bright, illuminating white. It was red. A bright red, with yellows and whites swirling in the center with it. And, very slightly, flickering here and gone, a blue in two distinct spots, pure white in the centers. It didn't look like Heaven. It looked like fire.

She was going to Hell, then? But, if so, why wasn't it getting closer? She could almost feel that it was growing, but there was no _traveling_ going on. Neither she nor the fire were getting any nearer.

And those flashing memories? They must include past lives, because she was seeing things (in the fire, around the fire, removed from the fire) that didn't add up. Things she never experienced as Veronica or Lydia. Faces passed by that she recognized and yet, didn't. Brooklyn was among them, frequently enough that she began wondering if she'd known him in more than one lifetime.

She saw herself most of all, strangely enough. With curly hair, with long hair, with tiaras or jewelry or makeup or masks, sometimes with different skin colors. Her hair was always black and her eyes were always violet - well, most of the time. Some other times she had red hair and bright yellow eyes; it was odd, because despite it being _her,_ she didn't feel like it was.

Images and scenes kept running by. She could almost swear she was watching the progression of the world, watching man from the first steps he took until today - and, somehow, beyond. Was it possible to see the future through your last conscious moments?

Why not? Everything else was possible.

She was aware of the fire beginning to form a shape. A shape that kind of resembled a bird with a long, arching neck. It didn't seem to have feet, just a body and head and huge wings and a wide tail. It moved like fire. It flowed and flickered like fire. But somehow it felt like it was _watching_ her. Those blue fires had become the most permanent, solid parts of the flames, coalescing at the chest and head: the heart and eyes.

Why did it look so _familiar?_ Just floating there, watching her, as if waiting for something. Expectantly. What was it thinking? What was she supposed to do?

"_Are you God?"_ she wondered, surprised that she heard the thought as if spoken, echoing through the nothingness around her and the firebird.

It murmured back, almost in a sigh, _"I am not the God you've heard about in religions, any of them. But I am powerful."_

"_Then who are you? What are you?"_

"_I am you, you are me. Together, we are the Phoenix."_

Flash. That was the only way to describe it. A flash, neither seen nor heard nor even felt, had gone through her. She could envision a dam had burst, unleashing all of its destructive fury on an unsuspecting town below, like had happened in that Superman movie.

But it wasn't water flowing out, it was fire. Bright red and warm yellow and blistering white. And with the torrent, everything made sense. She understood. She knew why she was looking at a fiery bird, why it was waiting, and what it was waiting for. In a gesture of acceptance that required no movement, she welcomed it into her.

As the two of them merged into one being again, a golden, flowing crest in the shape of a bird burned into her chest, directly above her heart, then faded away.

_**-There is a scene change here. But fanfic-net won't accept the "- - -" I normally use to show it. Now you know.-**_

To all outward appearances, there were two dead bodies on the floor of the warehouse, both bloody from stab wounds. A young woman (whom appeared younger due to her diminutive size) and an older, heavy-set man. They were side by side, two visions of humanity at its worst.

The man had multiple stab wounds to the chest and neck from repeated injury. His shirt was soaked with his blood, flowing out onto the ground around his torso and head. In the first moments after his death, his legs and left arm twitched uncontrollably, until the nerves finally died.

The girl had only a single wound to her left hand and chest, but her wounds were fatal. The split in her sternum went directly into her heart.

It was clear, to look on these two, to understand what had happened. There was no way the man could've killed the girl with the way his neck and torso was brutalized. He had stabbed the girl first, and somehow, she had found the strength to return the favor in kind. But now they were both stationary corpses.

If let be, the two would likely remain as they are for days or weeks, maybe even months before being discovered. That is, except for the fact that a certain red-skinned gargoyle was expecting to see the girl again soon.

Time passed. Hours. The scene did not change if not for the blood spreading its reaches. And, eventually, a sound broke the silence: the sound of claws scraping against metal.

In his worry, Brooklyn had returned to check on Lydia, some sixth sense telling him he should be watching out for her right now. He couldn't wait for her to come back to the castle on her own. The first thing he noticed, as he landed on the roof, was that total silence had penetrated the building.

A red flag rose in his mind. Lydia loved music more than he did; she rarely went without if she could help it. It was possible she had just left, but then why was his heart racing with fear?

Most people would call this paranoia, but he considered it justified. She was prone to accidents and drew in danger, after all.

It wasn't until he reached the skylight that he scented the blood. And then he began to panic.

He dove in, landing hard, eyes skimming the room as he tried to pinpoint the smell. It took him less than a second to notice the two bodies on the ground, covered in their own blood. And while a small, rational part of his brain recognized the man in a flicker of memory, his concern for Lydia blocked it out.

"Lydia!" he strangled out, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. He darted for her, claws scraping as he came to a sudden stop. "No, Lydia, no!" He seized her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. "Open your eyes!" he pleaded.

But she was limp, her body cool. Her head snapped with the motion of pulling her up, and she sagged with dead weight. And though he cradled her close, hoping with irrational need that his body heat alone could wake her up, the clear-headed part of him was making observations.

She was human, which meant the spell wore off. In the midst of his panic-turned-grief, he could see that the blood stains on the ground didn't fit with a gargoyle body. The spell had ended before her death.

Every move he made only made his skin stickier with her coagulating blood, and despite the disturbing nature of that knowledge, he couldn't stop. He cradled her head to look into her face, trying to see if her eyelids were fluttering or if her lips were moving with breath. He brushed her hair back from her face, making it slick back as the blood on his hands transferred to her hair. And, after another few, helpless moments, he began rocking her.

That was when he started to cry.

He tried to remember - between the sobs, in the midst of despair and heartbreak - to not hold her too tightly. He was strong enough to crush a human. He didn't want that to happen to her.

He cried for a long time, holding her, barely able to grasp the concept that she was dead. Against his will, his mind began rummaging through the fondest memories he had of her, resettling again and again on their Halloween dance the night before. She had been so lovely, so adorable. . . Until then, he had never truly believed that he could find a human so attractive.

She looked very different now, pale with smears of her own blood coating her, much of it from his attempts to wake her up.

As time passed and his sobs slowed, his mind started playing tricks on him. He knew it was a trick; the dead didn't come back to life, after all. Yet she was getting warmer, or so he thought. Just to prove to himself that it was, indeed, a trick of the mind, he sought out her pulse. Nothing, not a single beat.

An unfortunate side-effect of discovering her heart still wasn't beating was that it speared him with more pain. Fresh tears fell, but he grasped self-control like a lifeline. He needed to be level-headed, after all. Later, he would need to put together a plan for Elisa - for her to discover the dead bodies. There was no way to completely eliminate the fact that he'd disturbed the bodies, but perhaps, working together, they would be able to prove that Lydia and the man killed each other, alone.

_Killed,_ his mind echoed. Another bloom of pain in his chest. She was _dead._

She was _breathing._

He jerked in surprise, staring down at her in shock. Sure enough, her lips were moving. And she was getting warmer still. In seconds, her skin was hot; in another few, it was burning to the touch. He dropped her reflexively, and though he felt bad for it, she didn't seem to notice.

Still in shock, he surged to his feet and took a step back, trying to wrap his mind around this new information. Lydia wasn't dead? But she was. She'd had no pulse, wasn't breathing - most of her blood was on the floor!

As he watched, she suddenly arched her back off the ground, flames erupting from all around her, red and yellow and white. In a second they had lifted from her, forming a blazing bird with a long neck. It spread long wings, tossed its head back, and somehow shrieked like an eagle.

Then, in the breadth of a second, it had shrunken down and imbedded itself in her chest. How a fire could _imbed_ itself as if it were a solid was beyond him. Magic was doing this, he was certain of it.

He took a cautious step forward (magic should never be outright trusted) and saw that the bird had vanished completely. Only Lydia remained, still liberally covered in her own blood, but she was _breathing._ He crouched down and touched her arm.

Her eyes opened and fell on him. She said, "I thought you were going to wait for me to come back."

He choked on a laugh. "I got worried," he answered honestly.

She moved to sit up; when he tried to keep her down, she pushed him away. "Quit that, you. I'm fine." She got to her feet and brushed her clothes down.

"You were dead," he whispered, still astonished.

She glanced at him in mild surprise. "Oh, I know."

"No. You were _dead_," he stressed, gesturing the man on the floor.

She spun and looked down, then turned a smile on him. "I _know._ Anyway, new subject. We need to get back to the castle."

"The. . .castle?" he echoed, his mind still having difficulty functioning.

"Well, it's almost dawn, and I have a lot of explaining to do. Are you coming?"

One shock after another. He was running out of reactions. This time the shock hit him because large wings unfolded from her back.

They looked nothing like gargoyle wings. They were feathered, and different from any other set of wings he'd ever seen. The feathers began yellow, fading into orange and then red at the tips. The wings themselves were huge, long and thick, and several bright red feathers of extreme length flowed longer than the others. There was also a patch of long, freefalling feathers at the base where each wing met her back, making her wings look almost like a butterfly's.

And they shimmered, like viewing hot pavement from a distance. Flecks of fiery embers skittered the air around them, winking out and being reborn as they pleased.

He pointed at her in silence. It took a lot to make him dumbfounded, but he was there now. Lydia - human and young - had returned from the dead, unsurprised, and sprouted fiery feathered wings.

The word _phoenix_ came to mind.

She made a wide gesture. "If we take too long, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Uhh. . ."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine." She stepped up to him, and her wings vanished in a second. She lifted her hand, pressed it to his skin, and then a ball of red fire had surrounded them. When it cleared, they were standing in the center of the castle.

The word _gate_ came to mind.

But the Phoenix Gate had been lost to time, had it not? _Let's not forget that it's still in existence due to the fact that it can go everywhere in time._

He cleared his throat. "Should I. . .call for everyone?"

"They're on their way here as we speak," she promised, smiling.

"How do you know that?"

Her smile grew, but she didn't answer.

"You have the Phoenix Gate, don't you?" he checked, suspicious.

She ticked a finger at him. "No accusations until everyone is present."

Alex was the first to arrive, skidding into sight. Though Brooklyn was surprised to see him awake (at four in the morning, on a school night), Lydia wasn't. She grinned, knelt down, and opened her arms to him.

"Glad to see you could make it," she said as he dashed in for a hug.

His auburn hair bounced as he nodded. "I had to be here for this."

"You two collaborated?" Brooklyn wondered, gesturing them.

"I sent him an. . .idea, a thought," Lydia explained. "A feeling, more like. It was meant to make him consider coming to be present for my explanation."

"Story time," Alex agreed, winking at her.

"Behave until I'm done speaking, okidoke?" she asked, tickling his neck.

He caught her hand between his head and shoulder, laughing as he jerked back.

Fox was next to round the corner, looking none too happy to see Alex out of bed. She looked tired, too; she and David had switched to more morning-business schedules. And David was right behind her, frowning down at Alex. Then they both settled confused eyes on Lydia.

Owen wasn't much later of an arrival, with Elisa by his side, having been the stoic butler and led her here. In another few minutes of confused chatter during which Lydia said not a word about what they were here for, the entire clan made it back, and this included Hudson and Bronx coming downstairs. Brooklyn imagined the older gargoyle had been considering whether or not he wanted to stay for the explanation, and Bronx, ever-faithful, was set on keeping him company, whatever his choice.

And then, once everyone had formed a semi-circle around Lydia, she reached out and grabbed a chair (that wasn't there a second ago) and tapped on it. A red sphere enveloped it, and when it cleared, Demona was sitting in the chair.

She looked very confused, surging to her feet and getting on the defensive.

"Relax," Lydia told her, "it's just story time."

Demona narrowed her eyes, half in suspicion, half in irritation. "You're not human."

"Already deduced that I summoned you here? You're very quick," Lydia observed, smiling.

Goliath called for attention by clearing his throat. "Why are we here?"

Lydia smirked. "Because of this." She reached out, open-handed, and seemed to summon another red sphere. When it cleared, she was holding the Phoenix Gate in her hand. She tilted her head as she examined it, almost as one would when looking for imperfections in a mirror. She flicked her pinky over it.

"You have the Phoenix Gate!" Goliath gasped.

"Close," Lydia allowed, tossing it over her shoulder. It vanished in another red sphere, here and gone in under a second.

"Then. . .you have the Gate's power?" Lex guessed.

Lydia screwed up her face. "Yes and no," she half-answered.

"You're a Phoenix in human form," Owen said.

She pointed at him. "Very close. Oh, touching on truth there, Puck."

"I don't understand," Elisa admitted. "It has to do with the Gate, doesn't it? What you're going to tell us. Stop making us guess. What is it you want to say?"

After a moment, Lydia nodded to herself. Lifting a hand, she pulled the neck of her shirt down until it bared her heart. Then the emblem on the Phoenix Gate, shimmering and flickering red, appeared in her skin. Brooklyn recognized it from before.

She said, "I _am _the Phoenix Gate."

_**- Author's Notes -**_

A few things occurred to me as I writing this. One of them was the fact that while I included Alex in the general lineup, I never actually gave him any screen time. So here he is, at around six years old. ;)

I tried not to make this revelation too obvious. How did I do? Were you surprised?

As for Demona and everyone being cool about her appearance, well, there's reasons for that too. Suffice to say Lydia has a plan for the gargoyle and everyone else is tolerant of her. Or tolerant enough that they're not gonna attack while a much bigger occurrence is taking place.


	18. Origins of the Phoenix

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Eighteen_

Silence fell as if someone had cut a cord. For a long moment, no one seemed able to grasp this truth, not even Owen. If anything, _he_ looked the most confused. After a moment, he changed from Owen to Puck.

"The Gate is an object," he pointed out.

Lydia only smiled. "Magic is a living thing, Puck. Always has been. And living things evolve, strengthen, with time. Now what do you suppose would happen when something that exists as part of time was unleashed to roam it?" Her eyes fell on Goliath. "You did me the biggest favor anyone could have done. I believe I owe you my very existence as I now know it."

Goliath was just as dumbfounded as everyone else. He struggled out, "You're welcome," in that same stun.

She chuckled.

"Alright, fine," Demona broke in, "so you're the Phoenix Gate. What does this have to do with me?"

Lydia glanced at her. "You're here because I saw myself summon you."

"And?"

"You'll see." Turning away, Lydia diverted her attention to Alex. "Questions?"

Alex grinned. "I knew there was something special about you."

"Yes, but that's not a question," Lydia countered.

"Your sketchbooks," Xanatos said. "You saw the future. You were drawing it. Why did you let us know that?"

"Afraid I changed the future?" she laughed. "The future, itself, is forever changing. Nothing is set in stone, as they say. And. . .this may take a bit of explaining. Bear with me.

"If I were to count the years I've existed in a way you all could understand, I'd come up with a number that doesn't yet exist. Something like a hundred-million-trillion. But as far as Earth's timeline goes, I was created by a sorceress, human, around one hundred, twenty-five thousand years ago.

"At first, I was a being, looking like I do now. But I had a sister in that time, created before I was. When I started getting more attention than she, she killed our 'mother' and trapped my. . .essence in a crest. That was the beginning of the Phoenix Gate as you know it.

"From that point on, my consciousness was limited. I was aware of very little, and only when being held or used. But I had a telepathic connection of sorts with the one who held me. When they would say the chant, I would be able to discern where and when they wanted to travel, and took them there. This was against my will. . .except that I didn't truly have a will at the time.

"With each use, I got stronger, by increments so tiny it was indiscernible. But I was used thousands of millions of times. That gave me a great amount of power, more than doubling what I had when free.

"It wasn't until Goliath so kindly tossed me loose in time that things really started to take off," she added, smirking at the gargoyle. He shifted, a little uncomfortable.

Then she went on. "It's difficult to explain how long I was flickering through time, especially because it started that I was no longer limited to this planet. I visited the universe in bursts of awareness, saw other worlds. I was caught a few times, released again eventually.

"Again, if I were to count the years. . . I would say about twenty-thousand years ago is when I finally broke free of the crest. I had no body, _but_ I had gained the power to create one. This is what I've been doing since then: creating a body, living a life, and finally dying.

"Each time I take up a new body, I forget. Everything. That's why I've been telling the future without realizing it - I don't remember that I can see the future. And it isn't a constant this-is-what's-gonna-happen-tomorrow thing. I get glimpses and feelings, for as long as I believe I'm limited to a simple form."

Lex spoke up, "Then why do you remember all this now?"

"Oh, I died," she answered. "Just a little while ago." She met Elisa's gaze. "Remember that fourth guy I said got away. . ? He found me. Oh, but he's dead, too."

Elisa looked too stunned to answer, so Goliath did it for her.

"You two killed each other?" he checked.

"Dual fatality," she agreed.

"You don't look concerned," he observed.

She shrugged. "I've died hundreds of thousands of times. It doesn't carry much weight for me."

"But you killed a man," Elisa argued, shaking her head.

Lydia rose her brows. "Think about what you just said for a moment. I am _not_ a child. I know you're going to be stuck thinking of me as a little baby sister for a time, but this is your first step to letting that image go. I have seen _infinity._ If anything, I personify it. A dead man is a speck of dust compared to a galaxy to me.

"Besides, that man truly died weeks ago. The Doppleganger had taken his place."

Puck's jaw fell open. "It's still alive?" he demanded, shocked.

She cocked her head at him. "Technically, she can't die. Put simply, her name is Mistra, and she's my elder sister I mentioned before."

"Wait," Lex said, gesturing with his hands. "You mean the Phoenix and the Doppleganger are sisters?"

"Closer to twins, actually," she half-agreed. "She looks exactly like me - only, she was given the ability to change her coloring. Last I saw her, she was going with red hair and yellow eyes."

Demona heaved a sigh. "My patience wears thin," she hinted towards Lydia.

In turn, Lydia glanced at her, then further behind, to the lightening sky. Absently, she said, "Would you like to see a demonstration of my power?" without turning.

Silence. Everyone glanced at one another, as though waiting for someone else to speak.

Then Puck said, "Well? What's the worst she could do?"

Lydia gazed at him, expressionless, and her pupils began glowing a bright blue. After a few moments, she lifted her hands as though holding a large sphere the width of her waist, and looked down into the nothingness between them. Her golden, flame-like, feathered wings appeared from her back, startling those present who had not seen them yet. And then she vanished, appearing an instant later, hovering in midair, a few feet back from the castle and several meters up.

Her gaze remained glued to the empty sphere in her hands. Seconds ticked by. Then, at last, specks began appearing between her palms. They glittered, tiny and phosphorescent. More and more appeared, until it was more filled than not.

Lex ventured, "What's that? A spell?"

"The universe," Lydia answered without looking away.

Gasps, sharp inhales, and wondering _ohs_ sounded from the group.

"Impossible," Puck said, though there was a measure of wonder in his own voice.

"Never speak that word to me again," she said. Then, in a flash of movement, she thrust her arms wide. The glowing blue of her pupils spread, encompassing her irises and then her whites, illuminating the planes of her face. The sphere expanded with the motion, vanishing the instant she could reach no farther. The shimmering of her wings intensified, until it was like looking at wings made of fire.

Everyone swayed (except Lex, whose crouched pose kept him stable), and Elisa staggered, making Goliath catch her waist to balance her.

With a hand on her head, she said, "What was that?"

Lydia floated back down with grace to the castle wall, perching on one foot, her wings losing most of their shimmers. She answered, "Motion sickness. You'll recover."

"_Motion_ sickness?" Xanatos repeated.

"I stopped time. What you're feeling is the lack of motion from the spinning of the Earth. You'll feel it again when time restarts."

"You stopped the Earth?" Puck checked, brows raising. The playful fae was clearly dumbfounded by this. Which could only mean that Oberon was incapable of it.

"I stopped _time,_" Lydia corrected, though her tone lacked any irritation at having to repeat herself. "The entire universe has been held in place, except for us." As though tired from this endeavor, she swayed herself, crouching to kneel on the wall. Her wings quivered.

"You look. . .tired," Brooklyn noted, narrowing his eyes in concern.

She gave a weak nod. "Stopping time is one thing. Stopping time while allowing a pocket to remain uninhibited is another. This is. . .difficult. . ." As she spoke, she'd swayed more, and at the end, pitched forward. But as she fell the distance to the ground, she also vanished - her body disappeared, her clothes landed on the grass, and her wings dissolved into shimmering feathers of reds and yellows, spreading out with the breezes. After a moment, her clothes and feathers erupted into stout red flames, and when they cleared, nothing remained.

Silence fell like a curtain. Everyone stared, minds running rampant with theories and questions as to what just happened.

They received no time to voice anything before Lydia was there once more, sitting on the wall with her legs crossed. She looked vastly different now, yet every inch the same. Her hair was long, well beyond her waist, held up in a high ponytail, some strands braided, some loose, some beaded in yellows and reds. Red framed her eyes, branching around to her temples. Her clothes consisted of black leather: pants that hugged her waist, a vest that left her arms and a strip of stomach visible, thick belt that looked too wide for her hips, and knee-high boots with double zippers up the front instead of laces.

She said, "I hate it when that happens."

"What? What happened?" Brooklyn demanded, fear flaring in him.

"You saw me raise that body from the dead, correct?"

"Yes?"

"It takes a lot of my power to keep a physical body alive after it's been killed," she explained. "And the spell I used to stop time requires _most_ of my power to sustain. With the two, I was drained. The body expired."

"You're here now," Elisa pointed out. No one questioned why she said her body _expired_ instead of _died._

"Over your motion sickness so soon?" Lydia asked, meeting her gaze. "Very strong, for a human. And yes, I am here now."

"So your power _wasn't_ as drained as you led us to believe," Demona concluded.

"Incorrect. I had almost nothing left."

"Then -"

"I waited a few centuries for my power to return, and then went back in time to this moment," she told them.

Broadway was the most visibly confused of the bunch, though it was clear only Puck, Lex and Lydia were unaffected by the words.

"But. . .that. . ." Angela started, pointing at Lydia. "You stopped time, then waited centuries?"

"Don't think about it too hard," Lydia advised.

"A few _centuries_?" Goliath pressed.

"A long time, to be sure. But a few centuries to me is like a few minutes to you."

"How can you make that sound so. . .easy?" Elisa wondered.

"A million trillion years, remember? I've seen the beginning and the end of the universe more than once. But I can't go beyond it - time is limited to a single universe, and only one universe ever exists at once. If my. . .essence goes beyond the end of this universe, I do not know."

"Then, how old _is_ the universe?" Fox asked.

"Your human scientists are very close. It's almost 14 billion years old. And it will last no more than 43 trillion. There are times when I fear its end."

Demona snorted. "You? Afraid?" It was clear she regarded Lydia as a kind of equal at this point; another immortal. And one she figured was just as fearless as she.

"Of course. My existence, fractured and timeless as it is, is all I have. I lack the ability to have a family of my own. I lack most emotions the mortal races feel. I don't even have a soul of my own. All I have is all that I am: time. And someday this, too, will be taken from me."

"No emotions?" Brooklyn echoed, dumbfounded. "But you were so. . .lively. Before."

She shrugged. "I can mimic emotions quite well. I act and I portray and I try. But that's why my emotions always seemed off; I can't feel them, so I can only guess when one is appropriate." A flicker of emotion flashed in her eyes, gone before it could be identified. "I suppose I should be thankful for that. If I were to have emotion, I would not be able to continue on as I have.

"As it is, I do not covet, I do not crave, and I do not cry over the lost. I move on when things end and feel no joy or pleasure when things begin. In this way, my existence may be empty, but it is also in my control."

"You make it sound like immortality is a burden," Goliath said.

"It _is_ a burden. You don't know what you ask for when you ask for immortality," she said directly to Xanatos.

"Is it so wrong that I don't want to die?" he challenged. "That I feel I could do so much more with more time?"

"No, it's not. But men embrace the end when they've lived full lives. I've seen your death, David. You won't fear it, you won't hate it. You will accept it."

He looked uncomfortable. "You just said the future changes, always. What's to say I won't hate it?"

She nodded. "That it does. But just because things are always changing doesn't mean there isn't such a thing as inevitability. Thousands upon millions of people have tried changing the path of mankind, to prevent it from happening - to prevent mankind from walking this Earth. From simple plans such as sneezing on plants to complex ones attempting to rewrite dinosaur DNA to keep them alive. It never worked; man walks."

Angela said, "But. . .how? You can see everything, right? Is something else interfering, to ensure all. . .this?"

"Everything in my domain of time, yes. But this I cannot see. There must be something else - another immortal, perhaps. Not part of time. Above and beyond. Existing somewhere I can't go. The universe itself, perhaps. Whatever it is, I have no contact with it."

"Then there _are_ things you can't see," Lex concluded.

"More so, that there are some things I believe I blocked out. Perhaps an older 'me' is hiding these things. Whatever it is, I am blinded to certain events - and until they happen, I don't even know what they are."

Elisa frowned at her. "How do you live like that? It sounds so. . .complex. And empty."

She smiled. "By giving myself mortal lifetimes. By making myself forget. For it is only in forgetting what I am that I can truly. . .live. Stunted, half-lives, devoid of companionship, all of them. But even so, this is what I chose." Then she exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry; I cannot keep up the spell any longer. I'd wanted to spend more time with you all, to answer your questions. Alas. . ."

She closed her eyes, her winged unfurled from her back, appearing in a glorious shimmer of flames. Everyone rocked on their heels again, and this time Fox and Xanatos stumbled into each other. Before any questions could arise, she was on the ground, her hand raised towards Demona, her pupils glowing once more.

Demona barely noticed her before she swayed and fell back. But instead of hitting the ground hard, flames coated her, easing her to the ground, then snuffing out. Lydia dropped her arm.

"What did you do?" Angela demanded, panic lacing her voice. She hurried over.

"Solved a problem," Lydia answered, her voice calm. "The only way to cure Demona of her hatred is to make her experience it from the other side. I've given her a dream. She will remain unconscious for a few days, during which time she will be living out a full human lifetime as though born this way."

Perplexed looks were cast around, all eventually landing on Lydia, asking without words for more explanation.

Lydia acquiesced. "The lifetime I gave her is that of a servant woman in 667 A.D, living in a castle with - wait for it - gargoyles guarding it." Though her voice had a hint of humor in it, it was acted.

"Where?" Fox asked.

"Italy."

"What's going to happen to her?" Angela said, frowning at her mother.

"Nothing serious. She will be saved by them many times, and later in life, _she_ will save _them._ The entire lifetime is quite brilliant, I believe. One of the best I've ever crafted." She looked pleased with herself - except that she wasn't showing any hint of emotion beyond a softening of her gaze and glimpse of a smile.

"Crafted?" Xanatos repeated.

"I craft many lives for myself. Some meant to be happy, some pained, some maniacal. It is my way. Almost every sketch of mine that is difficult to explain - a female centaur with flaming hooves, an assassin hanging from a street light, a black-haired mermaid with golden scales - are all my past lifetimes as I remember them in glimpses. I sought after a specific emotion in each one. This past one was _miserable._ I can almost understand it now."

Brooklyn frowned, his eyes growing saddened. "You would do this to yourself? You. . .were. . ." he shook his head, "in a riot. All the time. It was hard to watch."

"But watch you did," she agreed, meeting his gaze. "I cannot _like_, Brooklyn, but I can _prefer_. I favor you. You felt pain and sadness for Lydia Smith, despite her inability to do the same. You even grew to love her, though she was nothing more than an acted part, incapable of feeling anything more than _need_ for you. I am not blind to this, and it almost. . ._pleases_ me."

Every word was spoken as if no one else were here but the two of them. And now she stepped forward.

"Your feelings, however, are guided. I might be doing this unconsciously, and if I am, I apologize in advance. You are drawn to me because you _need _to be. You have a long future awaiting you -" all at once a red ball surrounded him, the phoenix gate glimmering in the center, "- tied intimately with me."

Before anyone could reach him or he could escape, the ball shrunk and vanished, taking him with it.

"And so begins his greatest adventure," she finished.


	19. Sisters

**Disclaimer:** "Gargoyles," its products and such, are not owned by me. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

**Of The Night**

_Nineteen_

* * *

"You were waiting for me?" the black-haired Phoenix asked.

Twirling a long, curved blade in her hand, a red-haired, yellow-eyed mirror of Lydia sat on the edge of the skylight to the warehouse both women had died in hours before.

Mistra, the Doppelganger, had stabbed Lydia down below, in the guise of a human madman. And in turn, Lydia had stabbed the madman repeatedly. They had both breathed their finals breaths, and yet now, with dawn illuminating the world and making them both seem to glow, they were alive again.

"As soon as I blinded you," Mistra was saying, "I knew you would come back."

"I suppose that makes me as predictable as you," Lydia retorted.

She had changed again, her hair short spikes layering her skull, pointing wildly in all directions. She wore blue now, a jean vest over a black long-sleeved shirt and dark blue pants - shredded down the fronts - tucked into stout, unlaced boots that fanned around her ankles. Her wings quivered with the breezes, disliking the cold morning air. Yellow eyeshadow coated her upper eyelids, framed with black eyeliner above and below, creating a curved arch that pointed up to her hairline. Huge golden hoops hung from her ears.

Mistra was the opposite, wearing red all over. Her hair was longer than Lydia's and fluffy red, the bangs not reaching her eyes and the back cut so no strands could reach her chin. An off-shoulder dark red bodysuit was the base of her outfit, fitting tightly to her. A red corset hugged her top, making her petite curves a little curvier and giving the illusion that her modest breasts weren't quite so modest. Black gloves were on her hands, loose around the wrists, and red shiny boots climbed to her knees, the platform heels solid black. Her eyes were coated black, from one side of her hairline to the other, like a bandit. Her lips had been painted gold. Long, oval red disks were pinned to her ears.

She stood now, unfurling her own wings in response to Lydia's: shining, silver blades extended like butterfly's wings, layering over each other, shorter ones near her back and getting longer with each layer. Each blade was long, thin, curved. It was as if she once had feathered wings too, but had turned them all into steel. In her hand she still held one of them, wielding it now like a sword. A unique "feather," being nothing but a thin, sharp curve of metal, the handle as thin as a pencil but unbreakable despite it.

Using her own wings as a weapon - this was the Doppelganger's deadly art.

Lydia never batted at eye. It infuriated Mistra.

"No reaction, dear Phoenix?" Mistra cooed with false - she hoped - disappointment.

Lydia shrugged. "You've killed me thousands of times. I've killed you as many. I fail to see the point of this."

"Aw, does that make you sad? I'd apologize for blinding you - again - if I didn't find it so amusing." Which was true. Mistra enjoyed employing her magic to mess with Lydia's; there was something satisfying in blinding the one able to see _everything everywhere at all times._ After all, she wasn't yet content with how much her younger sister had suffered. Maybe another eternity ought to do it.

She had blinded Lydia hours ago, as soon as she awoke. And, it seemed, Lydia had countered the move by freezing time. As Mistra had been frozen along with everything else, she couldn't be sure; she was relying on her otherworldly awareness and intuition. And her intuition said, -_Lydia bought time with those beings by freezing everything but them.-_

And now she was here.

"I feel nothing, least of all sadness," Lydia reminded her. "And I do not dislike you for blinding me, either. Such acts make my existence a tad more interesting. _Not_ knowing what will happen next is a rare treat for me. In this, I should thank you, sister."

Mistra glowered, showing her teeth - and forcing her canines to grow into fangs. That was not the intended effect. In fact, it was the opposite. She delighted in making things hard for Lydia, in making the Phoenix suffer and then delivering the final blow that would force her back to a spiritual form for some time. Now, however, it was beginning to feel like Lydia had been leading Mistra on, _letting_ her believe that she'd been causing Lydia a hard time.

"Horrible little flaming _cunt,_" Mistra hissed. Rage was bubbling inside her, charging the air around her with electricity as her magic seized on it.

Without an ounce of truth, Lydia replied, "I love you, too."

That was it.

With a yell, Mistra darted at her, blade held back as she prepared to swing. Lydia didn't move beyond tilting her head, as if reading the future - the future Mistra had cleverly _blocked._

Her instinct piped up. _-She plays. She is still blind. Strike.-_

Obeying the words, Mistra slashed out -

Hitting nothing. No contact was made. Lydia had vanished.

Mistra whirled around, blade raised in a defensive stance. Her eyes darted, and as she continued to see no hint of her sister, she felt her skin begin to cool. The rage was chilling her, and was also likely making her pupils glow red. It happened with strong emotion, or when her magic was being employed - which, ironically, often went hand-in-hand, considering her magic was fueled by her emotions.

In this, she pitied Lydia a bit, knowing her younger sister could feel nothing. Cold-hearted, yet born of eternal flames. Also ironic.

_-Above you.-_

She snapped her head up, watching as Lydia dove down at her, katana in her hands. She had changed again, now wearing a black catsuit and mask, as if she had become a ninja.

Mistra leapt back, scowling, avoiding getting speared by the blade by a hair. The Doppelganger may be the one whose existence was made up of being other people, but Lydia changed whatever she could whenever she had an inkling to. Hair, clothes, makeup, accessories. The only thing she _couldn't_ change was her size and coloring.

Lydia would always be five-foot-two, always have violet eyes, always bearing silky black hair. Well, when she chose humanoid forms, anyway. Anything else would follow the same rules, only employing proportion instead of height or weight.

They should have been created in each other's shoes. Mistra had always believed this. The Doppelganger should be the emotionless one, taking lives as nourishment. The Phoenix should be the wild, raging one, a slave to its own emotions. Mistra felt an odd possessiveness of her identity.

But she didn't question it - anymore. Not since she'd killed their creator and mother. Once that woman was gone, there would be no more changes. Best to just accept it. _-You haven't.-_

_Shut up._

The sisters rushed each other, swinging. Clashing. Sparks flew as their weapons ricocheted off each other, occasionally digging up a drop of blood or two. Their wounds healed in less than a second. And, as the fight dragged on, Mistra began suspecting something she'd never contemplated before.

This was different than their previous clashes. _She's stronger than I thought she was._ Was she playing? No - Lydia wouldn't play. Then what was she doing?

_-She cannot love.-_

Mistra grit her teeth. She _knew_ this already!

_-But she can prefer. She can favor.-_

What was that supposed to mean?

_-She favors you alive.-_

_Why me?_

_-Sister. Bond.-_

_What bond? We've never had a bond._

_-She wants one.-_

_Ridiculous,_ Mistra sneered, swiping hard, watching as Lydia leapt back in a high-arching backflip. She landed almost silently on her sandaled feet. _She can't 'want' either._

_-She will.-_

What, now _Mistra_ was the prophetic one? Bullshit.

Lydia tilted her head again, madness seeming to flood her sight. This was easily believable; who wouldn't have gone mad, in her shoes? Even for an emotionless, soulless shell of a being - a being of _time_ - time itself was a hated enemy. Eternity in captivity. That had been Mistra's curse.

An eternity without feeling. That had been their maker's curse.

If Mistra didn't hate her so much, she would have pitied her lot in - not _life,_ certainly, but existence, perhaps? But as it was, she was still raw over what had happened so long ago. Even as they fought viciously, her mind trailed back. . .

She remembered looking up at their creator, both sisters having come into existence fully formed, Mistra a few centuries older. And their creator and mother had created them in her own image, almost perfectly. She had been much taller than the girls, tall enough to dwarf the average human who walked these streets. Her hair had been black, her eyes violet, her face cute but matured with age.

The sisters had each offered an item they crafted themselves, an item they put their very souls into - if they'd ever _had_ souls. Mistra had held up a silver and ivory dagger, so sharp it cut her just from resting in her palms, so she'd controlled her blood to keep from staining the blade. Lydia had been holding up a much less divine crest with the image of a curved, winged bird on it. The same crest design that resided on all three of their chests, above their hearts.

Later, Mistra's rage would bring her to exhaust almost all of her magical ability in trapping Lydia within that very crest.

Her hopes had soared, her chest tightening with nerves. She'd put so much effort into that dagger, making it as beautiful as she could, having plucked out her finest silver feather for the base. Blue lines pulsed within it, magic runes and words glowing with each course. With everything she had, Mistra had enchanted that blade to _live_ in the only way she could: with each use, the blade would grow sharper, the metal harder, the hilt stronger.

And yet their beloved mother hard turned to Lydia's crest, which the younger girl had made without expression, without love, and without even a hint of understanding about why she'd needed to. Then she'd picked up the crest, thanked Lydia, and held it to her heart. It had been attached to her dress with a thought from the powerful sorceress, never leaving until later - when Mistra had torn it from her dead body.

Though she'd turned to Mistra next and accepted the blade with a startled, impressed look, Mistra had been unable to see it that way. In her mind, she had been passed up by the unemotional, clueless little sister. Rejection burned in her, followed swiftly by rage and a determination that had left her breathless. Their mother was playing favorites, and to the daughter who couldn't love, no less?

Well, then. She'd just have to prove a point.

Regret hadn't touched her until weeks later, when she'd been holding the new Phoenix Gate in her hands and staring down at the bloodied corpse of the greatest sorceress the world had ever known. Her beautiful, lovingly sculpted dagger was jutting from the dead woman's corpse. Lydia was captured within the crest she'd crafted. And Mistra was near death, her magical enemy almost depleted.

But the new wave of regret fueled her emotions, kindling the rage once more. It wasn't enough, she'd realized then. Her rage would not end until Lydia had suffered what _she'd_ suffered. With that in mind, she began using the crest immediately, transporting herself around the world in time and doing the most despicable things a person could do, all the while taking on forms of men and women, and killing the originals to sap up their life energy.

She was practically an overfed tick at this point. She no longer felt any need to kill and drain life, feeling as if she could live forever. And though she had yet to relinquish the Phoenix Gate, she was fighting her own sister as the thoughts rose. Somehow, somewhere in the future, she would have released it, she realized. With such a power as time traveling, there was no telling exactly when it had gotten free, when it changed hands, because it had probably done so uncountable times already.

_-Focus now.-_

She obeyed, listening and watching with each of her senses, piquing the Instinct at maximum attentiveness. She held her blade at the ready. When Lydia charged her again, they met, broke apart, met again in midair, and then Mistra took the first opening she could, spinning around, blade so sharp it didn't even whistle when it cut through the air.

As she hovered there in midair, Lydia's body hit the roof beneath, then her head. And yet, when Mistra looked, nothing remained behind.

The Phoenix's self-preservation magic, gifted by their creator. When Lydia died, every last shred of evidence that she'd left behind would burn. Hair, skin, bodily fluids or waste, clothes she'd worn, items she'd touched. . .even the odd memory, from what Mistra could tell, disappeared. Those who _knew_ her would remember, but those who'd _glimpsed_ her would forget, never the wiser.

"Three."

Mistra touched ground, both annoyed and relieved. Lydia was back again - as always - and she couldn't decide if she was exasperated that nothing she'd done could kill Lydia or glad that the fight would never end. After all, her life would be boring without her baby sister.

This had been proven several times over the last few thousand years, when she'd been found again and again by Oberon. At first the being had openly demanded her obedience; he was the father of the Third Race, after all, and being a creation of a sorceress made her an indirect child of his. But he'd looked again, saw the destruction and carnage she wrought, and changed his mind.

An order had gone out to all of his children, to keep away from her if they sensed her, or she might just steal their lives. He had attempted to kill her a few times since, but with how her magic worked, she didn't just copy forms, she read their minds while she mimicked them, and could match any magic thrown at her, counter any physical attack.

Couple that with her Instinct, and not even Oberon could do away with her.

"Three?" Mistra echoed, staring her down.

Lydia was now dressed in black leather (which she preferred, and Mistra had to admit, her baby sister rocked it). Jacket, gloves, pants, boots, even a collar, all adorned with zippers and chains. She had emo hair going on, impossibly short all around except for the chin-length bangs almost completely shading her eyes. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her lips were dark blue. A cross on a chain hung from each ear.

Mistra snorted. Crosses? There was no all-powerful god. And if there was, he was a jackass for ignoring her all these years.

"Three times I've died since two a.m," Lydia explained, not an ounce of emotion in her tone. And yet, somehow, she wasn't speaking in monotone.

Creepy.

Trying to one-up her beloved sister, Mistra drew in power, then flooded it out. Her hair went blonde and lengthened into waves, then tied into a braid. She willed her eyes to darken to a light brown. Her skin darkened, tanning to a nice bronze. Her clothes went white, changing into a long-sleeved shirt, flawless in color. Her pants became white jeans, unbroken, lacking creases or tears. Her shoes were white sneakers. Gold jewelry adorned her in several bracelets on one wrist, a chain necklace, and a cascade of gold hoops up both ears.

White and gold, she mused. The perfect contrast to black and silver.

The entire transformation took only two seconds, and then she was saying, "You'll die many more times today."

Lydia's gaze, so emotionless, fell, as though she had lost hope. _Stupid._ She can't feel hope. Her plans may have been dashed, but not even carefully-laid plans could matter to someone like her. Everything she did held no value for her. Not even her own death could make her bat an eye.

That cold indifference - involuntary as it might be - was probably what Mistra hated most about her.

"No, I won't," Lydia answered.

Mistra narrowed her eyes. "You can't know that. I blocked your sight."

"I have power enough to ensure it."

"Like hell!" Mistra spat, fury clouding everything in sight. But rather than red, she saw blue, an electric haze that charged her with energy. Sparks seemed to fire everywhere in her field of vision, though she knew it was only in her own eyes.

"Why do you do this?"

_-Answer her.-_

"Do what?" Mistra growled, hanging on by a thread. "Kill you? Torture you? You know why!"

"No. Why do you fight?"

"Fight _you?_"

"No. Just fight."

That brought her up short. Was Lydia asking about why things fought to live? Mistra puzzled it for a moment before it clicked into place.

Lydia, having no feelings, didn't understand the will to live. She had no instincts to stay alive. She merely kept alive, Mistra was sure, because she also had no misery, no pain, no will to _die._ She imagined it was something like being in limbo.

"I live to kill, to absorb life - to cause you to suffer," Mistra hissed.

Lydia tilted her head in question. "You cannot make me suffer any longer. You have not absorbed a single life in millennia. You hardly kill anymore."

"Except when I want you to hurt," Mistra pointed out.

"The only thing this accomplishes is an attempt for me to understand emotional pain."

"Have you got it yet?" she mocked.

"No." Another tilt.

"Stop _doing_ that," Mistra bit out. "It makes me feel like an experiment gone wrong."

"It makes you feel?"

_Shit._ Of course Lydia would latch onto that one word. "Yes, damn it! Now quit it! And - why do you do it, anyway? What in hell are you looking for?"

"My sister."

"Those short answers do nothing for me, honeycakes," she replied blandly.

"My sister," Lydia repeated. She rose to her feet and crossed the distance between them. "I went back in time just now. I watched our creations. I understand why you were made now, and myself."

She. . ._knew?_

Curiosity seized Mistra. This was _exactly_ what she'd wanted - to _know._ To understand her existence and what she'd been created for. Their lovely mother had never told them their purposes. All this time, all these years, Mistra had given herself the single purpose of torturing her sister, but she'd always known it wasn't what she'd been created for.

And now Lydia _knew_.

"Tell me," she demanded, voice harsh.

Lydia reached out, tracing a curve on Mistra's chest. At once a bright blue arching bird appeared along those lines, glowing through her thin shirt. Her crest; Lydia had one just like it, only red. Red and blue. Opposites. A single glance would tell everyone that these two sisters had been created to be different.

"Tell me," she prompted again, the furious storm inside her calming. Her genuine desire to know would temper her forever, she knew. Lydia could probably use the information to make her into a slave, making her wait millennia for the first whisper of knowledge.

She _needed _to know.


End file.
